


Growing Up Northern

by MissMallora (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, F/M, Friendship, I got nothing, Prequel, Sansan is nonexistant for a long time, Sloooooow Burn, bisexual characters is A GO, boo ya, but it will happen, have faith, like really slow burn, repost, what even is a seven sided melee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:29:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4158708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/MissMallora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes just one brave choice to change the fate of a scarred young boy, when his grandfather brings him to Rickard Stark's ancestral home. </p><p>It appears that for all intents and purposes, the Starks have taken in a new pup and his name is Sandor.</p><p>Repost of old work. Warnings inside, as well as a lengthy author's rant nobody asked for. Cheers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATED as of February 3, 2016. 
> 
> MissMallora has officially left the world of fanfiction (for good, this time). I'm so sorry to leave this fic on a cliffhanger, but honestly, at least it ends before Lyanna dies (spoiler alert). And I promise not to take down any of my work.
> 
> I've completely lost my taste for writing. I don't know if it's this fandom or if it's me or whatever, but I can't do it anymore. I find myself hurt and angry on this site far more often than not.
> 
> In truth, I think I'm simply too jaded. This website makes me tired and angry and very, very bitter, and none of these things help my depression any. 
> 
> Best of luck to all. 
> 
> Take care, and be safe.
> 
> Love,  
> MissMallora
> 
> PS, I'm still game to beta work, or for anyone looking for encouragement. I know all too well how it feels to scream into a void and feel like no one is listening. Though my time as a writer here is done, my inbox is still open for anyone who feels the need for praise and love.
> 
> (OLD AUTHOR'S NOTE) Hey all. Real talk time. And before we get down to the nitty gritty, I'm going to apologize really quickly for both disappearing without a trace and then coming back and spewing this long-ass rant no one asked for, that is directed at NO ONE PERSON. I repeat: the following diatribe is directed at NOBODY, except maybe the writers of GoT, but they can kiss my ass, y'all.
> 
> Some may have noticed that I vanished from AO3 about two months ago now, and though it's been really miserable, it's also been a very useful two months. Besides taking a break from ASoIaF to write disgusting amounts of Jackie/Hyde fanfiction for That 70s Show (feel free to ask for more), I also took some time to reflect on why I do what I do, why I write fanfiction, if it's really worth it in the long run. Because somewhere over the course of the last year or so, I think I forgot what made fanfiction so exciting and fun for me, and it's time to find that spark again.
> 
> *deep sighs* Ok, so I've seen a lot of posts lately along the lines of "the author doesn't owe you anything." And you know what? That's true. It's absolutely true. When I start reading a story, published or not, there's no obligation for it to meet whatever hopes or expectations I have. HOWEVER. Whether you admit it or no, there are certain expectations for the conclusion of a story if it starts venturing into themes of adultery, rape, abuse, etc. It still doesn't mean the author has to do jack for their readers, but it doesn't make me feel any better telling myself this after reading fanfiction that condones domestic abuse or watching a fucking TV show that glorifies Sansa's rape in order for Theon's storyline to progress (don't even get me started on the piece of poop I've spent the past ten weeks watching. Don't. Even. Do. It).
> 
> My mother calls me an aggressive feminist. I don't think that's a BAD thing, but there you have it. So after being tremendously gutted by the complete neglect for female agency and empowerment, I'm going to cut the crap and get straight to the chase: These are the laws Miss Mallora lives by:
> 
> 1\. Play nice in the comments, or you get a timeout. Friendly banter is all good, but "[insert man] is such a pervert, anyone who likes [insert man] is also a pervert!" is not ok.  
> 2\. Sandor and Sansa will be together. Not saying when or how or whatever, but they will.  
> 3\. Some character paths will change from canon. Many will not. Don't get your hopes up for anyone outside of the OTP :D  
> 4\. Sansa WILL NOT be raped/abused/hurt for the sake of creating a sympathetic lens for the readers to see Sandor through. WILL. NOT.  
> 5\. I'm trying to keep the Starklings in character but some--Ned in particular--are being absurdly difficult to write, so if you see a line or a decision they make that weirds you out, let me know. Not promising to change it, but I'll certainly take it into account.
> 
> If you actually read all that and want to keep going, BLESS YOU. You're the people I love. You're the people who keep me going when I feel like wallowing in excessive amounts of angst and self-pity. My goal, besides getting back to writing for myself again, is for this little story of mine to make you feel about Sansa and Sandor--individually and together--the way I first felt about them, almost two years back. I'm getting back into the swing of things, folks. I'm done crawling. I'm ready to run.
> 
> Thank you for all your love and support. Thank you to anyone who has encouraged me. Special shout-out to LitaF for the nudge to get me started once more. Lita, if you're reading, this one's for you.
> 
> Ciao for now (hopefully not for long)  
> Miss Mallora

The first he ever laid eyes on her, he was only a boy, quiet and scared and more broken than any child should ever be.

She was waiting at the gates, playing some game or other with her youngest brother, a boy of eleven years or so. They could have been twins for their likeness, thick black curls and rosy cheeks, flushed from the biting cold. For though it was in the throes of summer, the north still felt the chill.

As a child, he had never paid much attention to the weather. For one thing, he could only remember the warm summers of the south at the tender age of seven. For another, there were always more pressing fears to worry about in his house. As such, he was entirely unprepared for the dry, icy air of the north, unprepared for the frostbitten ground every morning. He stood there, in clothes too flimsy for such enduring elements, and stared in wide-eyed fascination at the children playing. The girl could hardly be called a child for much longer, but there was something innocent in her laughing eyes, the way she threw her head back with a wild grin, that made her seem young and carefree.

He'd never seen children play like that, not up close. He had never been afforded the chance, and now, as his hand ghosted lightly over his covered cheek, he feared he never would.

"Sandor," the old man who had lead them north beckoned now. He'd stopped to turn and wave impatiently. "Come along, boy."

The child rushed afters the swirling cloak of the grey-haired, hunch-backed man, clutching at the coattails for dear life. A thousand and one questions danced on the tip of his tongue, but all had been asked before, on their way north.

_What will we do there?_

_What if they turn us away?_

_Will we ever go home again?_

His grandfather, the man who had swept him up from his bed and risked the hard journey north for his well-being, answered much the same way for every question asked.

_We will know when we get there._

_We shall wait and see._

_Only time will tell._

And the only time the answer deviated from the pattern was when Sandor asked, on their third night of traveling when food was scarce and the fear was stronger than ever, _what will happen to Gregor?_

His grandfather's face grew dark and haunted then, deeply angry and frothing with disgust.

_I don't know, Sandor. I don't know._

Sandor didn't doubt that he had told the truth—he truly didn't know either way—but he thought from the way he spoke, his grandfather perhaps _wanted_ something to happen to Gregor. Something bad, something as bad as the deed he had done to Sandor himself. Perhaps his grandfather even prayed for it.

Sandor certainly did.

For as long as he was alive, the only memories he had of his brother were ones of cruelty and malice. It's a rarity to see such hate in one so young, but for Gregor that's all there was. Hate. Anger. Viciousness. Sandor thought of the pups his grandfather had raised, thought of the times he'd found one drowned, or bludgeoned, or simply strangled in the bushes. Eventually his grandfather had ceased rearing pups altogether, only a few months before _the incident_ occurred. And though Sandor missed the warm bundles of fur playing at his ankles, he was happier to stop finding dead puppies than he was upset to see them go.

The remaining dogs of his house grew scared, as scared as Sandor was, and where there was fear, there was anger. Sporadic biting, constant growling, teeth bared at you from every corner of the house. Such became normal, and Sandor was as terrified of the dogs as he was of his brother, prior to _the incident_.

His grandfather had taken him aside one morning, into his chambers where Sandor knew it was safest in the whole house, and sat him on the bed with a weary sigh.

"You don't have to be scared of the dogs." His grandfather was stroking the soft, velvety ears of a long-nosed hound. Its droopy ears almost grazed the floor from its recumbent place at his master's ankles. The dog lived in his grandfather's room, too old to venture out save to sniff the flowers along the stony wall of their house and mark the brickwork with its piss.

They had been forced to leave the old dog behind when they left. Sandor often wondered what would happen to him, but he never dared to ask. He was too scared.

"But they're mean." Sandor had watched two of them draw blood over the skinny, withered bones of a rabbit, it's meat long since stripped and boiled for stew. The sight had sent him running until he hit the knees of his grandfather, on his way to the kitchens for evening meal.

"They're only hungry, and scared," said his grandfather gruffly. "Dogs don't do things without purpose. Dogs don't bite hands that feed them." The man was an exact replica of his father, only older and stronger and (in Sandor's opinion) smarter. Since his mother died in childbed, there were few people Sandor truly loved anymore, and his grandfather was one of them. The man always had a story to tell or wisdom to offer. And best of all, he shared Sandor's dislike of Gregor, although their feelings diverged in subtle ways. Where Sandor was scared, his grandfather was _angry,_ and it was no secret his father and grandfather feuded constantly over the matter of Gregor.

_That boy is a menace,_ his grandfather had growled one night, in plain sight of Sandor even. His father was sitting at the dinner table, his mother alive at the time, and quite heavy with his unborn sister. The only memories Sandor had of her were the times he'd shyly press a hand to her belly and whisper kind words to her, in the quiet, desperate hopes she would come out nicer and sweeter than their older brother. His mother would smile tearfully at him, stroke a curl behind his ear, and go back to whatever she was doing.

His father hadn't liked any time someone found fault with Gregor, not even his own father. He believed Gregor was made to do great things one day, although Sandor didn't understand what he truly meant by that for a long time.

How could someone so evil do _great_ things?

But his grandfather had explained it to him on their journey, their venture to the north, with a long and tired sigh as he massaged the stump of his knee, where he was missing the rest of the leg. "He meant that your brother would bring fame and glory to our name. That he would warrant the attention of our liege lord one day, and that we might one day become a great House of the West."

Any lord who gave fame and glory to Gregor was no lord to Sandor, and he told such to his grandfather. The old man had snorted, and shaken his head.

"Why do you think we left, boy? Nothing left for you and your sister but pain and disappointment." He frowned at the road ahead of them, baby Elinor tucked against his chest. "Tis a hard road which lays ahead of you, but it will be a fair one for it. One without the likes of your brother, with any luck."

When Sandor was hungry, or when Elinor's angry crying kept them awake, or when their grandfather shouted at her to stop her bitching, he thought of those words and felt hope kindle in his chest, the only fire he would touch any more.

Some nights, all Sandor did was explore the rough contours of his face. It was the only time he could do it without garnering a disgusted look from his grandfather, like he'd gone and pissed himself in front of everyone. _Don't touch it,_ the man would hiss, and Sandor's hands would snap to his sides like he'd been whipped.

But here in the dark, with his back to the flickering, sweltering heat of the fire his grandfather started, no one could tell him what to do, and so he took the time to stroke his face, to try and shape the skin back to its normal form. He couldn't see himself, but he knew well enough that the pocket in his cheek wasn't normal. His fingers poked and prodded until the skin broke and shifted, and blood seeped through the pink, angry cracks which had only barely healed. _Stay,_ he tried to tell the skin, pushing down the mottled, bubbly texture of his forehead and cheek with tearful eyes. _Stay,_ he pleaded. But every morning he woke and touched his face once more, he was disappointed to find the skin in the exact same, scarred, disfigured, gruesome arrangement as when he'd left it.

They avoided inns and towns, save to buy necessities, and though the old man never said so, Sandor knew it was so people couldn't look at his face. His grandfather, on those days they were forced into society, would wrap Sandor's face in a high cowl, and tell any curious by-passers that his grandson was sensitive to the cold. Some would laugh, some would shake their heads.

_It's only going to get colder, laddie,_ they'd often say. _Good luck with that._

_I don't mind the cold!_ He longed to shout at them until his throat went hoarse. _I don't mind it! I can endure anything!_ Because that was the worst, seeing so many people believe him to be weak. He thought he might prefer to be stared at and judged for his scarred face, rather than be mocked for lies about his bravery and strength.

But he kept his mouth shut, allowed the insult, and walked with his head down, fingers curled nervously around the long, sweeping hem of his grandfather's cloak.

"Food, for myself and the boy. And some goat's milk for the bairn." His grandfather scowled when the innkeeper told him the price, and would often direct it at Sandor himself. "Your sister is costing me an arm and a leg, boy."

"M' sorry, Grandfather."

The man would only grunt and scowl with one hand rubbing his bad knee, and turn away to throw the few coins on the table with disgust. "Criminal," he muttered under his breath. "Absolutely criminal."

The cost of Elinor's milk was often far less than the food he bought for himself and Sandor to feast on, but he only ever complained about the milk. His grandfather hadn't wanted to bring Elinor, see, and Sandor had had to beg him not to leave her behind. For much like the old dog in his grandfather's rooms, Sandor knew the fate of his baby sister would be as inevitable and as tragic. She likely wouldn't live past two, and that was something he could not allow.

"Please?" he'd begged, holding baby Elinor in one skinny arm. "Please, Grandfather? I'll mind her myself. You won't even know she's here!"

That was a lie, but he hadn't meant it to be. Sandor truly _had_ intended to care for the baby, but when the time came to change her or feed her and she started to cry, he was at a loss of what to do, being only seven years himself. So his grandfather would take her into his arms, squalling and all, and gruffly rock her to sleep while they traversed between towns, or instruct Sandor to get her a change in nappies, or swaddle her tight in her blankets and tuck her against his chest. He hadn't wanted to bring her, but he had done it all the same, and what's more was that he actually helped keep her alive.

It was nearly a month before they reached Winterfell, and the day before they got to the gates, his grandfather had taken him aside and washed his face, brushed his hair, and pulled it down just so in a way that hid his left eye entirely. "There," he rasped, and clapped the boy's scrawny shoulder. "As good as it'll ever be."

"I can't see, Grandfather!"

The man scoffed. "It's better than the alternative, believe me. Now listen here lad, and listen well. The Lord Rickard Stark is known to be a hard man ever since his wife died, hard but fair. He was distant kin of my wife, you know, and I have no reason to believe he'll turn you away, being a big, strong lad such as yourself."

Sandor's eyes roamed to where baby Elinor was sleeping, curled in a cot at the first inn they had ever slept in, for the benefit of a bath, his grandfather explained. She was sprawled on her tummy, a plump thumb stuffed in her mouth.

"What about Elinor?"

His grandfather sniffed carelessly, didn't spare her a glance. "Her? She's a girl, and a babe nonetheless. Might be he'll send her to be raised with a couple of farmers or cooks, let her grow up to be some poor man's daughter. Likely be taught to be a ladies' maid or such."

That wasn't right, Sandor thought. His sister _was_ a lady; she shouldn't be serving them, she ought to be learning her lessons and wearing fancy dresses and singing songs about the Seven. Shouldn't she?

"Can we not keep her with us?" asked Sandor, thinking he'd like to have his family very close to him now, more than ever. His father was miles away, his mother dead, and his brother as good as, for all it mattered. Grandfather and Elinor, they were all he had left. "Can you not—"

"It won't be up to me, lad." He shook his head gravely. "You'll listen to what Lord Rickard has to say, and you'll do as he tells you. I'll not risk my life for you to toss it away for some squalling brat, now. You hear?"

Tearfully, Sandor nodded.

"That's a good lad." And his grandfather had lead Sandor and Elinor to the gates of Winterfell the next day, to where Sandor had watched the two children play with wooden swords. Not only had he never seen child's play, he'd certainly not seen a girl hold a sword before, not even a wooden one.

"Take _that,_ grumpkin! And _that,_ giant-breath!" She laughed, pushing a mass of errant curls out of her face, the other hand with a stick raised boldly in the air.

"I am _not_ a grumpkin!" The boy pouted unhappily, and swatted viciously at her erect sword before letting his arms fall morosely. "I am _not,_ Lya! Take it back!"

"Are too!" she said, and stuck her tongue out for emphasis. She only barely managed to duck her little brother's retaliation, a crazed swing of his short branch which would have likely left a serious bruise no matter the material of the false-sword, and laughed victoriously when he fell over with a huff.

Sandor's eyes—or his _eye_ rather—locked with hers, mid-laugh, and he dared to grin a bit, still trailing his grandfather's cloak closely. She smiled back, a gleaming, toothy grin, and raised her hand in an exuberant wave.

And then her brother leapt up and tackled her.

Sandor stopped there, laughing to himself without meaning to, watching as the brother and sister fought and kicked and pulled at each other's hair. "Sandor!" He spun around and raced ahead, his grandfather having stopped once more. "I won't ask again," he snapped, and Sandor nodded contritely.

"Yes, Grandfather. Sorry."

And he followed his father's father into the hall where smallfolk could go to voice their complaints, where guests were received and feasts held. It wasn't elaborate or bedecked in gold, but it was larger than any hall Sandor had been in, and nearly took his breath away at the grandness of it all.

They waited in a long line of peasants, some old, some young, some men, some women. Most of them unhappy, most of them muttering either to themselves or to each other. Slowly Sandor, his grandfather and baby Elinor shuffled down the line, forming the end of it, winding between rows of tables like a serpent's tail. The long wait, standing and moving so slowly, must have been excruciating for his grandfather's missing leg. Sandor knew it was dull for him. It got terribly boring terribly fast, and though he was scared, he was more relieved than anything when it was finally their turn to be heard.

Sandor had tried getting glimpses of the man in the tall-backed chair all afternoon, but only at the front of the line could he truly see him and his features. He was everything a northernman was said to look like. Big, tall, and broad. Dark hair, as dark as the children who played outside. A high forehead and a hooked nose, paired with the strong jaw of a northerner. It was the face of the First Men, and Sandor was surprised to find he looked rather similar to his own father. Or maybe, his father looked similar to them.

It didn't take long for Sandor to spot the greatsword resting over his lap, out of its scabbard and ready for use. To call it a greatsword felt foolish, though that's what it was, because this sword was the singular most _spectacular_ sword he had ever seen. It didn't just gleam. It _glowed,_ a dark, murky silver light reflected and refracted off its blade, the hilt carved and created out of some strong, enduring material to form a wolf's head.

An ancestral Valyrian blade. He'd never seen one before, and he didn't think twice about letting his eyes feast on it now.

"Come forth, state your name and your purpose for coming." The Lord of Winterfell—Sandor didn't need to be introduced to know such a thing—motioned for them with a barely perceptible flick of his wrist. At once, his grandfather took two steps forth and fell awkwardly onto one bent knee, his false leg stretched out behind him, lowering his head respectfully and cradling the baby to his breast. Sandor immediately followed him, kneeling at his side and ducking his head nervously. Now that the excitement was over, the fear had returned. He wondered what the Lord did to little boys who vomited at his feet.

"I am Aldor, of House Clegane, Lord Stark." His grandfather didn't lift his head as he spoke, not once. Sandor's eyes darted up a bit to peak at him, and saw the man's eyes were actually closed. He looked to be praying.

"House Clegane?" Sandor heard the confusion in the man's voice. "That sounds like a Westerlands' House, if memory serves me."

"It does, my lord." His grandfather looked up slowly, but didn't rise. Elinor began to make snuffling, snorting sounds, and the man handed her to Sandor's arms without hesitation. "My wife was the younger sister of your grandfather."

Lord Stark's face was blank for a moment, then grew intense. "Berena. I heard stories of her. They say she disgraced herself, ran away with a kennelmaster. From the South, no less."

Sandor's grandfather was solemn and fierce. He lifted his head and looked the Lord of Winterfell in the eye. "Aye. She did." And he said no more, although Sandor desperately wanted to know more. Disgraced herself? The younger sister of a Lord? He hadn't known these things about Berena, only that she was Berena Clegane, the wife of the man kneeling next to him. He'd never thought to ask more.

"Tell me, Lord Aldor of House Clegane. What brings you so far from your home? With two children, no less."

His grandfather laid a rough and weathered hand on Sandor's shoulder, hefted the girl higher on his chest. "The lad here is looking for a place in your town. And his sister as well. My grandchildren," he added grudgingly, as though he'd wished to keep that part a secret. Sandor felt himself blush and look at his feet, suddenly unable to stare at the greatsword any longer.

"As wards?"

"As residents. Permanently." Aldor gave Sandor a quick push, nudged him forward and to his feet. "He'll swear himself to you now, if it please milord. And the girl, when she can. They're parents were hale and hearty stock. They'll both grow big and strong."

"I have no use for big, strong women," said Lord Stark with a hint of amusement coloring his voice. "Gods know I've enough trouble on my hands with the strength of my daughter. But we're always looking for strong lads. Tell me, lad, what's your name?"

"Sandor, milord. Sandor of House Clegane."

"Well, Sandor, of House Clegane. Can you wield a sword yet?"

"N-no, milord. My grandfather only started teaching me."

Rickard frowned pensively. "Well, how old are you?"

"Seven, milord."

There was a mild rumble of surprise, and even Lord Stark sat back half an inch with his shock. "Seven? By the gods, you _are_ a big lad. How big— _what happened there?"_

Sandor, who had raised his head shyly at the unexpected praise, felt his cowl slide back away from his face, freely displaying his scarred cheek, and the murmurs of impressed surprise turned at once to horrified dismay.

His grandfather had risen to his feet—to his foot and his peg leg, rather—and was all too quick to intervene. "A terrible accident, Lord Stark. His sheets caught fire when he was only small. The Maester said it was a miracle the boy lived at all."

Lord Stark got out of his seat and sheathed the greatsword (to Sandor's relief) before walking forth. "I don't doubt it," he murmured, frowning at the young boy before him. "Sounds like a very careless mistake, Lord Clegane. You'll see no such accidents happen here."

"No, of course not, my lord." Aldor nodded respectfully, while Sandor forcibly bit his own tongue to keep from protesting. _It was not an accident! My own brother did this to me! He did this, and my father gave him a real sword as_ _ **punishment.**_ _Where's the justice in that, Lord Stark?_ But he didn't dare—oh he didn't _dare_ —say it aloud.

"Tell me, lad. What brings you so far from home, when you could be with your own people?" Lord Rickard crouched down in front of him, close enough that Sandor could count the thick pelt of hair over the man's sharp jaw. "Don't you miss your home?"

_Don't you miss your home?_

Sandor didn't rightfully know what to say to that. "My grandfather—Lord Clegane, I mean—he told me the north has men of honor. I…I wanted to come here, so that I wouldn't…so that the southron men wouldn't…" He touched his cheek without thinking, and heard his grandfather hiss in dismay and warning.

But Rickard caught the gesture, and understood what Sandor was saying without words. "My own men don't judge those except by their deeds, that much is true. But you will find those who stare and mock and judge you for your scars your whole life. Coming north won't change that."

Sandor tried not to look as disheartened as he felt, for though the words were painfully honest, they were not altogether unkind.

"However," Lord Stark continued. "I've known young men to rise above the circumstances a time or two. Perhaps the north will afford you this opportunity, Sandor of House Clegane. If you can survive the rage of a fire and the fury of our winters, might be you can survive anything, even the cruelty of man's words." Lord Stark rose to his feet. He matched his grandfather's height with ease, and stood there like a more noble, more powerful and more handsome version of Aldor Clegane's only son.

"I believe our smith is looking for someone to train. Perhaps you will find your purpose there. His name is Mikken." Lord Stark looked at the bundle in Sandor's arms. "As for the girl…"

"Elinor, my lord."

Lord Stark nodded gratefully at Sandor's words. "Elinor. Perhaps a family would take her in, raise her to become a farmer's wife, or maybe even work in my House one day."

"My Lord?" A man stepped forward from the shadows of the wall, proud and strong like the rest of them. He moved to one knee like Sandor's grandfather had done, only with much more ease. "My wife has always longed for a daughter. With our newest son still nursing, she could take her."

Lord Stark grunted in approval. "Very well. Here, take the girl child to your wife, Martyn. Gods be good to you—four boys and a daughter to boot." He shook his head wryly. "You'll be eating your offer one day."

Several men laughed and the man, Martyn, stepped forth to take baby Elinor from Sandor's arms. But he clutched her tighter when the man tried, looking desperately to his grandfather for help.

Aldor offered nothing in the lines of comfort. "Give her up, boy. Being raised in a fine house is more than you could have hoped for."

"Sandor, is it?" Martyn ignored Sandor's grandfather. "I swear to you I will see your sister raised safely, and kindly. Perhaps you will even see her on your travels. Winter Town isn't so large."

"Please," he whispered, and hugged the baby. "Please, might we stay together?"

Martyn's face seemed truly apologetic. "Mikken has no use for baby girls. And my wife hasn't the time to raise another lad, not even one as good as you. Give her here, now." Slowly, with no other choice, Sandor relented the baby into Martyn's hands.

"I won't be long, Lord Stark," he said with a hasty bow. Rickard nodded tiredly, and made shooing motions with one hand. Martyn left, baby Elinor with him.

"And what of you, Lord Clegane?" Rickard surveyed Aldor with a critical eye. "Have you wish to join my House as well?"

"No," said Sandor's grandfather, and though he'd been expecting it, he was still sorely disappointed to hear it. "No, I was born in the Westerlands. I mean to die in the Westerlands." He bowed to Lord Stark, rigid and tired and, Sandor could see, very much in pain. "Tis my dying wish to see the lad in a good home."

"Mikken will treat him fairly. So long as he does his work and minds his tongue. For the sake of our shared kin, I will see it done." Lord Rickard frowned, unconvinced by Aldor's words. "You mean to rest first, surely, before you leave?"

"I fear the gods won't allow me the pleasure." Aldor and Rickard shared a final look. "May the gods look on your House with favor, Lord Stark. You've done my grandchildren more kindness than I had dared to hope for."

They shared a silence for a moment, and the Warden of the North chewed on his words thoughtfully for the pause, then offered a ghost of a smile. "It would be my wife's nameday this day. Perhaps this is the gift I would give her."

Aldor then turned to Sandor, who felt tears come on without warning. "There now, lad. Don't cry." His grandfather rubbed a knuckle over Sandor's wet cheek, only over the good one. "You be strong. Do as you're told. Be loyal and brave for Lord Stark. You hear me?"

"Yes, grandfather." He sniffled, and straightened his back as best he could.

"Good boy." And his grandfather clapped him warmly on the back. "Remember our words, too, Sandor. A hound will die for you, but never lie to you." Before Sandor could say he would remember, that he could never forget, the old man had turned around and begun to walk away, proud but frail. Tall, but hunchbacked.

"Come now, lad." Sandor looked up, followed the sight of the hand on his shoulder to the face of the man holding him steady. Lord Stark didn't smile, but his face wasn't so severe either. "Time for supper. Then we'll get you to Mikken."

And Sandor let himself be turned away from his grandfather's retreating back, tried not to think on his little sister, tried not to think on the fact he would never see Aldor Clegane again, tried to be brave and strong. Sandor followed his new Liege Lord from that day on, loyal and unwavering. The men might question his face, his age, his House. But they would never find cause to question his loyalty.

Not ever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to keep the old chapters rolling out.
> 
> Welcome, any new readers! Thanks for reading!

Being Mikken's apprentice came with its ups and downs, and Sandor couldn't make up his mind conclusively one way or the other for a long time.

On one hand, there was the terror of the constant heat in Mikken's working forge. Being an apprentice—and a very young one at that—Sandor's jobs were few and, for the most part, quite simple. Cleaning up after Mikken was done. Watching how Mikken worked the fire, how he pressed the bellows (which were too heavy for Sandor to manipulate just yet), which tools were used for what purpose. Learning his maths and letters at the end of the day in Mikken's small sitting room.

The terror of working near fire was minimized by the simple fact that Mikken, for however intimidating and surly he appeared, was a good man at heart. He was patient when it came to Sandor's difficulty at understanding sums, competent at explaining quickly but thoroughly every task he did, and best of all, he never, ever forced Sandor to go too close to the open flames.

Sandor knew the leniency was only because he was so young, and he knew as well that he would be expected to do more as he got older—including but certainly not limited to going near fire. Mikken explained it to him on the first night, the progression of his duties as the years passed. He was a very honest man, and seldom cut out anything for the sake of Sandor's age. If there was something difficult to comprehend, Mikken went about it over and over until Sandor could follow what he meant. Grasping what he meant by "should it come to war" took a long time. Sandor couldn't fathom the fact that not only could war break out without warning, but that Mikken would be expected to stay behind and amass weapons to send to their Liege Lord's aid, rather than go to battle. Mikken advised him not to dwell on it.

His days were much the same anymore. After waking with the sunrise, he would eat a large, hearty meal with Mikken, who would review the day's work with a critical eye. Mikken was in the habit of keeping small slips of parchment by means of remembering who asked for what, what that entailed, and most important of all, how much money was allocated for it. Sandor had never seen someone try to go stingy on the blacksmith, and though he knew the northerners were famed for their sense of honor, he had a feeling it had more to do with the fact that Mikken was so unerringly thorough about his work. There was no room for skimping on payment; he simply didn't allow it.

The cook would then take their plates away and wash up after them, while Sandor and his master headed into the forge to begin the tasks for the day. Some were busier than others. If Mikken had too many things to do, he'd often send Sandor at noon for his meal, allow him a brief respite to play outside, and then expected him back in the forge until supper. Most customers came to pick up their requested design in the late afternoon, and Sandor was often the one whose face they saw holding their purchase.

Reactions to his scars varied broadly from end to end. Cruelty exists everywhere, that much was fact, and what Lord Stark had told him about only his men withholding judgement was true. The rest of the smallfolk made no qualms about staring, or asking questions, or tutting in pity, or grimacing in distaste. One woman refused to deal with Sandor, and insisted Mikken be the one to give her the necklace she had had made for her only daughter's wedding gift. Mikken had come out with his arms covered in soot and his face darkened with anger. With clenched fists, he asked quietly for Sandor to go wait for him in the backrooms by the bellows. There was some vague, general shouting, a few roaring curses, and then by the time Sandor was allowed to come back out, the wretched woman was gone.

Gone, Mikken said, and never coming back.

Sandor tried to thank the man for his kindness once, with his hands shoved awkwardly behind his back and his face red with embarrassment. Mikken had barely spared the time to look at him.

"It's only skin, boy. Those who hate you for it do so out of fear. And hating a seven year-old boy out of fear is the same as being a coward. I don't serve cowards." And then he went back to striking the white-hot blade he was forging for one Brandon Stark.

That was something Sandor liked about working in the forge with Mikken. The young and handsome Stark heir visited his shop almost daily, at least twice a week, each day with a wildly outrageous and extravagant request. Not extravagant as in excessively beautiful or lush, but rather complex in design, specific in its use. _A blade for gutting fish. An arrowhead for hunting small game. Leather gloves with spiked knuckles, to make ones opponent bleed._

His requests were almost always met with an eye-roll from Mikken and two raised-brows from Sandor. Brandon would laugh, tell them he has the coin, and Mikken would sigh and say, "Give it here then, milord."

That, for most people, was the end of the conversation, and they would then go off to do whatever it was they needed to do. But not Brandon. Sandor liked Brandon's visits best, because the young man (he was scarcely seven and ten) stayed long enough to tell a story, and the story was almost always good.

Brandon Stark liked to talk as though he was constantly making a speech, grand and deep and proud. He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, waved his hands exuberantly, and frequently recounted tales of his glory, all the glory a man of seventeen years could have.

"And the javelin! A _fine_ weapon!" He walked over to the rack of spears and javelins alike, the one Mikken kept on hand for display purposes, and plucked one from the rack. Sandor watched him with quiet, studious eyes, standing in Mikken's shadow as the smithy worked the fire.

"Do you know the first animal I ever killed with a javelin was a boar, fat and red and _screaming_ its fool head off?" He turned to Sandor with a feral grin. With the javelin balanced expertly in the crook of his thumb, he began stabbing the air. "My father and I, we got it into the exact position we wanted first, chased him around both sides with our horses and a pair of clanging pots. To disorient it, you see. And then, when it came running to the tree I was behind, _I stabbed!"_ And he lurched forward, lancing the invisible boar viciously. "Father called it the fattest pig in the north. We ate well that night, and several nights after."

"Did you throw the javelin? Or did you just"—Sandor mimicked driving the head of a spear into the ground, a deeply satisfied grunt in his throat.

The wild-haired man beamed, feral and fierce as the boar he'd hunted. "No, no. You throw, you risk the chance of it running off with your weapon."

Mikken made a sound of disapproval. In those days, Sandor could remember communicating a great deal via vague sounds and general throaty noises (and not much had changed since, either). "Not if you had good aim, you wouldn't."

"Well then. Well!" Brandon's mood soured a bit, and he cast a glower Mikken's way. And though Sandor knew Brandon was too smart to ever try going up against the blacksmith of Winterfell, he felt comforted under the obvious knowledge that Mikken outweighed the young lordling by some stones, and could likely defeat him sparring, as well. The younger man of the two wasn't known for having an even temper. Nor was he wise for his age, according to Mikken anyways.

 _He's a fine young lord, Sandor, and a good man to boot. That's a rarity anywhere but the north, you see._ Mikken had told him such over dinner one night, and they supped on a hearty beef stew. _Don't believe everything Brandon Stark tells you. He's some learning to do yet._

Sandor didn't mean to take everything the heir to Winterfell said at face value, but it was hard not to at times. Brandon Stark was made to lead, made to inspire. His words were weapons, gilded with encouragement and pride, and he used them well. And besides all of that…well… In truth, Brandon was one of his only friends. Sandor had met a few of the boys in town closer to his age (Brandon was a decade older than him, after all), but none of them showed half the talent at ignoring his scars as Brandon did.

"Well, how about you, Sandor?" said Brandon, trying to smile as charmingly as he'd once done. The effect was somewhat soured by the moody glint in his eye, a consequence of Mikken's rather unsubtle critique.

Sandor's response was to frown at him, puzzled.

"Your aim! Your sparring! Has Mikken taken the time to teach you a thing or two about how to actually use these things?" Brandon walked over and took an arrow off the rack. "My first weapon was the bow. Not that I use it anymore. Coward's weapon, you know."

Sandor nodded, though he didn't actually know that.

"A bow is a fine weapon in the right hands." Mikken's voice was barely audible over the din of his hammering. "Just because _you_ never excelled in long-range weaponry, doesn't mean Sandor can't. And quit distracting my pupil, Stark."

Brandon acted like he hadn't heard anything after Mikken's critique on his form. "It's hardly the honorable weapon, anyways."

Mikken made another unhappy sound, a hum and a snort in the back of his mouth. "What's honor got to do with life and death, eh? What then?"

"Better to die nobly than to live a coward."

Mikken laughed his raspy laugh, years of working over smoke and soot engrained in the lining of his lungs. "You act as though sneaking through the woods alone on the frontlines of battle, readying the first arrow while scores of men lie in wait behind you, you act like _that_ is cowardice. To battle your elder brother with a sword to the death—is _that_ honor?"

"These are all such singular cases," Brandon rolled his eyes. "I'm talking about the _sword!_ I'm talking about no games, no tricks, no fancy frills or pretty lace. It's a blade against blade, blade against _bone._ Sandor!" Black curls flew about on his crown as the man spun on his heal, grinning wolfishly.

"Sandor! I think you've been at it long enough, eh? What would you say to accompanying myself to the training yard, getting a good spar in before supper?" Brandon ribbed him lightly. "Get you away from the old dog over here." That was Brandon's favorite thing to call Mikken. The _old dog,_ for his loyalty to the Stark family. For Sandor, it sounded like an insult, but it never seemed to bother the man in question. When asked, Mikken just shrugged and said something or other about liking dogs.

They were big on their dogs here, the northern men.

" _Brandon_."

"What?!" asked the young lad, with an incredulous laugh. "Oh come on now, Mikken! You cannot possibly have so much to show him in the next hour he hasn't seen or _won't_ ever see again! Let me take young Sandor for an hour or so." Sandor stood there, barely moving, barely _breathing,_ praying to gods he didn't really believe in that Mikken agreed to it. Praying to get the chance to have _Brandon of House Stark_ show him how to wield a sword.

The old man set down his hammer with a frown deeper than any canyon. With a sinking feeling of dread, Sandor could see the word _no_ curl in his lip, the word as hideous as a three-headed troll baby, but before anyone could say anything, the front door of the shop flung open, and an irate, loud, _girlish_ voice stretched from the opening doorway to the depths of the forge.

"BRANDON!" the girl called. "BRA-A-A-ANDON! ARE YOU HERE?"

"Gods, that girl has a voice." The young Lord in question shifted upright, plucked a sheathed sword of the rack, and strode briskly to the door connecting the front room where purchases, pickups and orders were made. With his head stuck out, he beckoned her impatiently. "In here, Lyanna! Gods, hasn't your Septa taught you a thing about visiting guests?"

Brandon stepped back to let her through, absolutely no one listening to Mikken's groans of dismay.

"Hello, Mikken! How are you today?" A brightly-smiling, grey-eyed girl with hair as dark as her brother's but neatly groomed entered the room, giving a small, perfunctory curtsey to the owner of the house. After which, she made a face at her brother as though to say, _are you satisfied now?_

Brandon scoffed and shook his head, twirling the sword in hand.

"Oh! Hello, Sandor!" The young girl smiled brightly at him, and gave a little wave. She did not curtsey, nor did she begin to spout pleasantries like a fountain like most ladies did for other boys his age and older. Instead, whenever she saw Sandor, Lyanna Stark would raise a hand and wave it, pair it with a bright and cheery _hello Sandor!_

He liked it. He liked _her_ a great deal. When she met him for the first time, she hadn't even flinched at the sight of his scars.

"Lyanna!" Brandon wheeled around to face her with a frown bemused and disappointed. "Shouldn't you be in your lessons?" he asked, leveling the tip of the sheathed sword at her, sliding into a playful fighting stance.

The girl's cheer slid away at once, and her face grew dark with contempt. A hand swatted the sword like a pesky fly, casting it aside. "I hate lessons," she pouted at him.

"That isn't a reason, I'm afraid." But Brandon made no move to walk Lyanna back to the castle, nor to even send her from the room. "Father will be furious when he finds out you skipped them. And poor Ben, left there on his own to suffer Maester Walys' lectures. How could you, really Lyanna?"

"Oh hush." Lyanna crept closer to Sandor, away from the sword Brandon was cautiously wielding. Mikken had gone back to his work, grumbling under his breath about ants running about under his feet, and favors for the Lord of Winterfell. "I came to find _you_ anyways. Father was looking for you. Said something or other about your visit to Barrowton."

"Oh?" Brandon puffed up in the chest a bit at that. "Likely wants to discuss what he'll be giving me to take there. And I suppose you'll be wanting to come with me, little horse-rider?" He grinned down at his sister, and wrapped a firm arm around her shoulders, gave her a squeeze.

"Yes, I will! Brandon, _stop!"_ But she was laughing, the pair of them so uncannily alike in their joy that Sandor had to turn away for a moment.

Lyanna's warm interactions with Brandon reminded him terribly of his sister. He missed her fiercely, missed her sweet, milky smell. She was only a baby—not even a full year old—but she was the only real family he had left, or the closest one anyways. Mikken was a good teacher, and he liked him very much (and he liked being away from Gregor too). But in the south, he had been able to play with little Elinor as he pleased, often sneaking into her nursery after leading Gregor away from the very place on a wild goose-chase. Gregor liked to torment Sandor in any way possible—his facial scarring a final testament to the fact—and Sandor would die before letting baby Elinor fall prey to him next.

After creeping into the nursery and sending her nursemaid—a rather robust woman named Ilana—on her way, he would then lay her atop a blanket on the floor, pretend to eat her toes and talk at great length to her about the evil pack of monsters living under the stairwell to the kitchens.

"Don't worry, Ellie," he'd say. "I'll protect you."

Those words haunted him anymore. What good was he doing protecting her, when he was with Mikken and she was nowhere to be found?

Because Sandor hadn't seen his sister since they parted. Not once.

And now, seeing Brandon and his young sister speak so freely, so happily with one another—it hurt him in a way he was unfamiliar feeling.

"Seems I ought to get back then. Stop bothering Mikken anyways." Brandon clapped the man on the back, earning him a scowl.

"Good. Go." Mikken turned his broad back to them, the shirt he wore torn through in several places and caked in grime and sweat from the hard labor. "And…take the lad with you, why don't you."

"What?" Sandor tilted his head at the man in confusion. "But I thought you wanted—"

"Never mind that."

The heir to the north made a pleased sound, a deep throaty laugh, and he practically swept Sandor out of the forge in his happiness. "Come on, Sandor! You can dine at the castle with us tonight!"

"I don't think—"

"Oh, it'll be such fun!" Lyanna skipped alongside him, taller by only a few inches, and smiled down at him. Her dark eyes were twinkling in that moment, two blue pools of sea water and stone.

Even then, before it had truly all begun, he was unable to refuse her anything.

* * *

Dinner with the Stark household was altogether enjoyable, in spite of a few unfriendly stares his face earned. He tried not to let it bother him, like Mikken advised weeks ago, but it was difficult, and the urge to shout at the top of his lungs was mounting by the day. Being surrounded by the Starks helped a good deal, though, for none of them carried judgment in their gaze, and in fact all had kind words for Sandor.

"What's it like, working for Mikken?" Benjen, a dark-haired boy much like his eldest brother, asked through a mouthful of potatoes.

Sandor glanced at Lord Stark to see if the man had spotted his son's poor form of table manners (he had not, deeply engaged in a conversation with his Maester instead) and then looked back to Benjen. The boy was only a few years older than Sandor, though he still preferred Ben's older brother, if he was being honest.

"Good, I s'pose." He didn't have much to compare it to, anyways. It was better than his life back in Clegane Keep; that was all that needed to be said.

"It must be a lot of hard work." Lyanna spoke with a musing tone, twirling her fork in the air as she did. "Does Mikken keep you at it all day?"

"No. He lets me take a break for lunch, and another before dinner." Sandor scratched the back of his head, a bit awkward. He knew very well that he was far below the other children at the table, in as far as station went. His clothes, his shoes, his hands—they all felt unclean, even though Lyanna's dress was soiled at the hem, and Benjen's hair had hints of branches and twigs lining the roots. Sandor tried for a change in subject. "Um…so what's it like living in Winterfell?"

Lyanna made a noise of derisiveness, entirely too bitter for her young age, and Benjen grinned into his plate. "It's a giant _dungeon._ No one lets you say or do anything you want."

"No one lets you say or do anything you want no matter where you go," Brandon piped up, in the middle of loading a roll of soft baked bread onto his plate. His third, Sandor suspected. "At least you're well-fed here."

"Yeah. Well-fed until it's time to sell me off." Lyanna's vigor slumped with her shoulders, and she turned her pretty face downwards. "Hopefully I'll get to stay in the north."

"That's the spirit, little sister." Brandon nudged shoulders with her, bumping her into Benjen slightly. "Besides, I can always pummel anyone who mistreats you. Just say the word." Brandon raised one fist and pretended to jab it across the table. "Dead."

"Brandon Stark, I hope you're finding time between punching and shoving to show an example of proper manners to your brother and sister." Rickard, who must have caught Brandon's movement in his peripheral, spoke loud enough for the whole table to hear. Lyanna and Benjen clapped a hand over their mouths at the same time, stifling their laughter hastily.

"Yes, Father." Brandon's reply, almost too quiet to be heard, made Lyanna and Ben laugh only harder.

"Good." Rickard leaned forward suddenly, and spotted his two younger children doubled over in their chairs. "For gods' sake, Lyanna. Sit up. And Benjen, get your hand out of your mouth. Young Sandor here will think you were all raised in a barn."

Lyanna, looking sorely tempted to respond with something witty and doubtlessly disrespectful, bit her tongue with a hopeful glance at Brandon, plainly seeking out moral support.

He just glared down at her, a brow raised as though to say, _really?_

Her head dropped half an inch with disappointment. Sandor, meanwhile, watched from his peripheral, entranced by the ordinary interactions of the Stark family. They didn't resemble any sort of family gathering he'd partaken in before. Rickard Stark, sharing a meal with the Maester. Brandon the heir, bantering with his youngest siblings. There was another brother, Sandor had heard talked of, but he had yet to meet the mysterious Eddard Stark. All he knew of the boy was that he was quiet, humble, only slightly younger than Brandon, and (in the words of Lyanna) _a terribly wicked fiend for leaving me here with our stupider brothers._ And then there was Lyanna and Benjen, _willingly_ talking to the strange ward from the south who had been welcomed at their table due to some string-pulling of his grandfather.

His grandfather… Sandor thought of the man quite often. Memories of Aldor grew dimmer and fuzzier, but the sound of his voice remained strong, echoed by Sandor's own childish voice each night before he went to bed.

 _A hound will die for you, but never lie to you._ It was his waking prayer and his last goodnight. He whispered it to himself before falling asleep, tucked under the heavy furs Mikken had accumulated over his lifetime.

Lyanna drew him from his thoughts with a nudge and a grin, and pulled him back into the conversation with a crude jape about Benjen's ears, to which Benjen began whining and protesting, and Brandon coughed through his laughter, and Sandor drank in the experience like it was the finest glass of sweet wine he'd ever had.

* * *

The rest of the night passed in much the same way, and before he knew it, the time had come to say goodbye for the evening. "Mikken will be wondering if I've stolen you, no doubt," Lord Stark spoke with a hint of a grin, enough to make Sandor relax as he bowed, the way Mikken himself had taught him.

"Thanks to you, for hosting me at your table, Lord Stark, Lord Brandon, Lord Benjen, Lady Lyanna." He stood upright once more. "May the gods be with you."

"And you, Sandor Clegane." Rickard Stark nodded at him in farewell. "Go quick now, lad, before it gets any darker. Winter is coming."

Ah, if only he had a silver stag for every time he'd heard that since arriving in Winterfell.

He made his way out of the castle with steady steps, unhurried but straight and precise. Mikken might have given him the night off, but he didn't doubt he'd have to make up for it in the morning. In his head, he was reviewing all he'd learnt about being a blacksmith, but his heart kept calling back the memory of Lyanna's smile and Benjen's hand clapping his shoulder warmly between his squeaking laughter.

He was so consumed by his thoughts that he didn't hear the footsteps racgin up from behind him until his stalker was upon him.

"Sandor!" Lyanna's soft hand went to touch his arm, but he pulled away quickly, unprepared for the touch. The moment he realized what he'd done something like shame welled inside of him, though it was a reflex he couldn't control. Affection was unheard of in his few years; not even his grandfather had spared more than the occasional pat on the back or friendly tousle of hair, and those instances were especially rare.

"Oh, sorry." She chewed her lip for a second. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"S'fine," he mumbled, trying to adjust his eyesight in the darkness. All that existed to light his way were the burning flickers of torches lit on the walls, no moonlight or starlight on such a cloudy night. "Did you need something of me, Lady Stark?"

At once she made a disgusted sound. "Yes! I need you to swear to never call me _Lady Stark_ again. Just Lyanna, please."

"Sorry. Do you need something of me, _just Lyanna?"_

Lyanna's face, at an age on the cusp of childhood and adulthood, smiled radiantly at him, a slow, sugary show of her white teeth. The wild gleam flickered in the torchlight, red and orange in the dark, murky blue, and amusement danced in her gaze as plainly as the reflection of flames.

" _Yes._ I like you, Sandor. I forgot to invite you back here. You should come play with us. Brandon's too _old_ now, he says. But Ben and I know how to have fun." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Sometimes we even borrow Bran's old swords from the armory and play knights and dragons in the godswood. No one finds us there."

He didn't think to question her logic. Sandor swallowed roughly, and glanced at his toes as his face heated and the rest of his face turned as red as the angry unhealed wound on his cheek. "I don't know… Mikken keeps me busy."

She shrugged cheerfully, undaunted by his hesitance. "We'll find a way."

He didn't doubt that she really meant it.

"See you soon, Sandor!" She waved at him as he walked away, and kept waving even as he left her standing there, until her body was nothing but shadows in the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Not even a turn of the moon after Sandor's meal with the Stark children, word came that Aldor Clegane had died in his sleep a week past.

Mikken had told Sandor face to face, grave and apologetic with the missive hanging limp in his fingers. Sandor had said nothing at the time, only nodded his head a few times before looking silently to his feet, trying his best not to cry, but trying to feel _something_ at the same time. His chest felt…sore, like it was physically torn how to react. Aldor was the last member of the Clegane House who would miss him. Elinor didn't know who he was, and his father cared nothing for Sandor, that was plain. Deep down it grieved him terribly to know his grandfather was dead, the man who had saved his life in risking his own.

But men don't cry—not even little boys with snot dried at the edge of their nose—and Sandor tried to buck up bravely, tried to square his scrawny shoulders and meet Mikken's gaze as fiercely as ever.

When he met the older man's face, something in Mikken's dark eyes was soft and compassionate, tender where there had only ever been hardness, and without hearing a word from Sandor, he made the quiet suggestion that Sandor take the day for himself to grieve.

"It's alright to be sad, laddie." He offered Sandor a dry rag when the tiny swell of tears rose in either eye, and was smart enough not to try wiping Sandor's eyes for him. "Grown men have cried over less. Don't let anyone tell you different."

Somehow, Sandor doubted _Brandon_ _Stark_ ever cried over anything, let alone Mikken or Lord Stark himself, but he kept that to himself.

"Go and visit the Starks, maybe, hmm?" Mikken ushered him outside, with a dagger and a heavy cloak to keep him warm. "Brandon might be a pigheaded arse at times, but he knows how to use a dagger well enough. He can show you a thing or two if you ask."

"Ok." But Sandor didn't have any intention of going to find Brandon, or any of the Stark children actually. When he left the forge, his feet carried him down the roads with a mindless familiarity he'd acquired over the past few months of living here. He wandered at first. Up the main road and back again, a long enough walk to make his feet sore. But even then he didn't stop, and with the dagger tucked under his cloak, he started to march into the woods.

Lyanna had told him little about the godswood, although it wasn't for lack of her _wanting_ to tell him. She had even offered to take him there once or twice, an innocent suggestion borne from the love of her faith. It was Sandor who refused, Sandor who never wanted to hear of them. The gods in the south had never been kind to him. Why would he expect these old gods to be any different?

Still he walked, his heart heavy and his eyes clouded with grief. Every time he tried to imagine the face of his grandfather, it grew dimmer and dimmer, and now he feared he'd lose sight of the man entirely. Death wasn't new to him, after all. He understood very well what happened after losing someone you loved. First you would remember the bad and the good, and you would try to hold on to them tight. And then you'd start dreaming about the bad, just the bad, until all you could think of even in the daylight was the bad. And then you'd let go of the bad—because who wants to remember pain and heartache for forever?

And then, when there was no bad and no good, there was nothing left. Much like there was nothing left in his memories of his mother. Pieces, maybe. The fur of her cloak. The warmth of her round belly. The softness of her curled hair. The frailty in her hands. And other than that—nothing.

He didn't want his grandfather to become nothing.

 _A hound will die for you but never lie to you._ He whispered it to himself as he walked, a mantra that carried him deep into the forests and, quite accidently, in the direction of Winterfell's castle.

"A hound will die for you…" Sandor trailed off quite suddenly, standing alone in the thick of the woods, naught but a dagger clutched close to his chest. It was a cold day, winter truly _was_ coming, and not even the heavy fur Mikken had given him could truly keep the chill from his bones.

But it wasn't the cold which stopped him. It wasn't the realization of his loneliness which gave him pause, nor even how defenseless he was in the middle of a very large, very wild woods.

It was the sound of a girl screaming which gave his feet pause.

He thought he'd imagined it at first. High-pitched, ghostly. It was an eerie sound in the middle of the peaceful godswoods. Sandor's feet crept backwards a step or two instinctively, a shaky hand holding the dagger out and upright at the invisible threat.

"H-hello?" he called, and called again. "Hello?!"

At first there was nothing, and he thought (and hoped) that he'd imagined the whole thing. Swearing to himself to never return, Sandor turned on his heel and began to run, when the scream came again, and this time in the form of words.

"HELP ME!" the girl sobbed, the sound echoed pitifully against the tall trees. "SOMEBODY! HELP ME!"

The voice was distressingly familiar, and it was that fact which sent him running— _towards_ the cry this time.

It sounded so far off, a distant cry for help, that Sandor half-thought he'd have to run for days before finding the girl. But in truth she wasn't so far at all, and he stumbled into a clearing with a nightmarish scene unfolding before his very eyes.

There was, at the center of the clearing, a tree. It was a tall tree, the sort with many strong branches splitting off its trunk for a climber to grab onto, the sort of tree an experienced climber could scale in seconds. The thick cover of leaves blotted out the cold sunlight, but offered little protection from the ground, up. And so, finding the victim stranded in its branches was no trouble at all.

Because naturally, clinging onto the uppermost branch and crying out for dear life, was none other than Lyanna Stark.

And circling the base of the trunk, with its front two paw outstretched and ready to start the climb, was the biggest cat he'd ever seen. Not like the mousers his family had kept for keeping rats away—not like that at all. This cat was as big as Sandor, its head deep and heavy, the long tail flicked at the end impatiently, waiting for its prey to give up and collapse to the ground. The body of the beast was a sandy color, unlike any hide he'd seen before, and it took him several moments to realize this was—against all reason—a mountain lion, descended into Winterfell for reasons he couldn't understand.

At any rate, it wasn't his place to understand what a mountain lion was doing outside of a mountain just yet. What he really needed was to find a way to get both himself and Lyanna out of the woods, and to safety.

What he needed was a miracle.

"Sandor!" Lyanna wailed when she spotted him. From the glimpse he'd caught of her, her skirts were in tatters, her hair spilling from its careful style, and her face flushed from running and climbing and crying for help. "Sandor, run! Go get Brandon or my father!"

Even if he'd wanted to, though, Sandor could hardly have found the time to turn around and walk three steps. For Lyanna's plea had unintentionally shifted the focus of the lioness off of herself…

…and onto _him._

"RUN!" she screamed, as the cat curled its body in a tight pivot, wheeling about to face him fearlessly. Sandor kept the dagger held upright, and tried to stop his hands and knees from shaking as badly as they were. "SANDOR, NO!" But the lion had already begun to stalk the newest choice in dinner, the powerful shoulder blades slid against one another as it prowled briskly towards him, tail slung straight out behind her, head hung low and mouth opening, as though she would swallow him whole. Gods, she probably could.

There was, in truth, no other option save the one he chose.

It moved so quick, there was hardly any time to read himself. And beyond that, even if he'd been granted the luxury of all day, he still wouldn't be ready to face a famished lion. He was only a boy, only a small child. Gods, it was going to kill him. His grandfather had brought him north and probably died managing it, and he was going to die anyways—

There was a sharp pain across his chest, and the terrible weight of a grown lion collapsing on his shoulders, sending him to the ground. He laid there, motionless, trying to remember how to breathe just to make sure he wasn't dead.

He wasn't dead.

_He wasn't dead._

How had he not died?

"SANDOR!" Lyanna was screaming, already on the move down the tree trunk, as able at dismounting as she was at climbing upwards, it would appear. "Oh gods! Sandor!" He laid there, completely useless, as she scrambled towards him and began to pry the weight of the dead lioness off of him. She even helped to wrench his dagger out of the body. "Are you hurt? _Are you hurt?"_

Sandor just laid there even after the carcass was rolled away, his breath rattling in his chest; he didn't trust himself to speak. If he tried, he'd likely start crying, or vomiting—and he wasn't sure which would be worse. The golden body was now toppled sideways, revealing the freshly-slit jugular, a deep gash that spilt the lifeblood in a matter of seconds. With his head rolled to the side, away from the sight of Lyanna's terrified face, he couldn't tear his gaze away, staring at the body of his first kill. Its wide green eyes were glassy and unseeing, but bore into his own face with a deadly menace he was sure he'd remember for the rest of his life.

Memories of his grandfather would fade with the easing of time, but this—this horrible, terrible experience—would last eternity within the confines of his mind. The picture of the dead lioness, with her bloodied neck and unseeing eyes, her tremendous weight and her massive paws.

His first kill.

"Gods!" Lyanna kicked at the lioness, tears streaming down her face. "What a wretched creature!" she sobbed, and with blood-soaked hands, she dropped to her knees, practically in Sandor's lap, and held him tight. Her fingers raked through his tangled hair, her neck pressed against the rough scars of his face. She cradled him like a child as she herself wept. "Are you ok? I was so scared! Gods, I was so scared. _What were you thinking?_ You could have died! Oh gods, are you ok?"

"My…my chest..." He reached up with numb hands and wiggled his hands between their squashed bodies, feeling for where her paws had struck him down. Sure enough, four thin lines had torn through his shirt, torn through the skin as though it was nothing but dried parchment. Angry droplets of blood trickled from the wounds and into his tunic, staining it irreparably, he was sure.

Tears filled his eyes, as he stared down at the marks he bore now, the marks he'd bear his whole life, surely.

More scars.

"It's ok," Lyanna whispered, gingerly touching her fingers to the skin around it, touching his shoulder through his clothes. "I don't think it's deep. _Gods."_ She shook her head, tears staining her face, and laughed once weakly, wiping a bloody hand over her face. "I don't know if you were lucky to survive it, or unlucky to have stumbled into my mess!" And then she began weeping once more, weeping and apologizing.

And suddenly the scars he'd have didn't matter anymore. How could they matter, when he'd acquired them for the sake of her safety? For the sake of _Lyanna Stark's life?_

"I-it was my d-duty…" he said unsteadily, and was hushed quickly by Rickard's headstrong daughter.

"Shh…shh…" Lyanna pulled away, and held his face in her hands for a long time. Sandor felt incapable of focusing on more than one thing at a time. The blue flecks of sea in her Valyrian-steel eyes. The long bolt of blood strewn from forehead to jawbone. The muddy chin from when she'd fallen down trying to run away. And all the while, her hands held him steady.

"Gods, you're shaking." She gripped him by his shoulders, kept him solid and upright on his knees, and glanced around them where they sat in the mud. His heart was no longer racing by now, and this time when he looked at his kill, the blood from the jugular had slowed, the eyelids drooped low. Not quite closed, but better at least.

"Alright." Lyanna wiped her runny nose on her sleeve without letting go of his arms. "Alright. Let's get you back to the castle." She looked at him uncertainly. "Let's get you back to my home. Can you stand?"

And together, they pulled him onto shaky legs, the unsteady limbs of a newborn colt, and Lyanna kept him carefully turned away from the carcass going cold in the ground. "This way to the castle," she whispered, and began guiding him east, with a careful arm drawn around his shoulders, her other hand pressing the wadded-up front of his tunic into his wound to slow the bleeding. And though he was light-headed, even Sandor could tell he'd survive the ordeal. The blood was already slowing, congealing and clotting. Maybe he wouldn't even need stitches.

"M-Mikken," he choked out, staggering on both feet, even though he knew nothing was broken, and his legs worked just fine. Lyanna didn't question his trembling though; he could've sworn she herself shook every now and then, even as they got closer and closer to Winterfell's towers.

"I'll have someone send word to him." She glanced at Sandor, still shorter than herself, but not by much. "We'll get you patched up and into some new clothes. Are you cold?" She rubbed the arm around his shoulders, chafed it against his cloak. "I'll have the maids draw you a bath. Maybe some hot broth." She pulled him along with her hands, a gentle, coaxing touch he was helpless to do anything but obey. "You look to be Ben's size. You can wear something from him."

 _You don't have to,_ he wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat. Winterfell was in sight now, and there were a few guards up ahead, pacing and looking very worried indeed. Sandor stared at them blankly, feeling quite out of sorts all of the sudden.

"Help!" Lyanna waved at them, beckoning them urgently. "Guards! Heeeeelp!"

She didn't have to ask twice. They ran full-tilt at the pair of them, four men almost as big as Mikken. Gods, were all the men in the north so huge? Back in Clegane Keep, Sandor's family stature had been something unusual, unordinary. Here, it felt very commonplace.

When they reached the pair of them, all men began asking questions at once.

"Lady Lyanna! What happened?"

"Are you hurt?"

"Did this boy do something to you?"

"What happened?"

Sandor only stared up at them as Lyanna spoke. It was as though he had forgotten the Common Tongue; their words felt slurred and their speech incoherent. _Talk properly,_ he growled at them, but all that came out was a gurgling noise. And—oh no—the color at the outside of his vision was going dark, like a black smoke closing in on him. His breathing grew erratic and scared. Blind? Was he _going blind?_

"He's shocked, I think. The claws got him deep." Lyanna allowed Sandor to be passed into the arms of the biggest of the guards, a man with dark hair and a crooked nose. He hefted Sandor up like he was a tyke once more, and only with minimal difficulty. Sandor couldn't remember the last time someone had carried him. He couldn't recall anyone having the strength to carry him comfortably, actually.

The guard turned to one of the younger men, someone likely just trained recently. "Run ahead and tell Lord Stark of what happened. Be sure to tell him the Lady is well, and get a room ready for the boy. And fetch the Maester, to check his wounds." Sandor's head rolled against the man's shoulder, and though he couldn't see his face, he could feel the laughter, weak and strained as it was. "Oh, lad. You picked a fine time to go for a stroll!"

"He saved my life!" Lyanna paced alongside them frantically, holding the elbow of the guard carrying her young friend. _A friend?_ Sandor thought to himself. _Are we friends, Lyanna?_

He thought might like that. Maybe. He didn't think he'd ever had one before, even before _the incident._

"I'm sure your father will see him rewarded in kind." They were inside the castle now, and judging by the quick pace the guard set, they'd be in a room in no time. Sure enough, the guard he'd sent ahead was there to greet them and guide them to a room. Sandor thought he heard Lord Stark's voice in the background, scolding Lyanna and yet, welcoming her at the same time. Embracing her. Benjen was there, too, and Brandon.

 _A lion?_ Brandon asked incredulously. _There hasn't been any lions here in—in—I can't even recall!_

 _Yes, well. Go and fetch the dead animal, will you, Bran?_ Rickard ordered sternly. _And be sure Walys sends that raven to Mikken. It's late. The man's likely to worry soon._

Brandon's footsteps lead away from the small crowd then, back the way they came. Sandor's eyes felt so heavy, felt so sore, as though he'd kept them open for too long.

"Here we go, lad." And then there was a warm, soft mattress under him, the warmth of thick furs and plump pillows. "Relax, now. You're safe."

His vision was coming back slowly. The words which had sounded garbled were clear again, and he recognized all the faces surrounding him as…kind. Good.

"Mikken?" he asked, and it was Lord Stark who answered him with a tired grin, standing at the foot of his bed with an arm around his daughter's shoulders.

"He'll be here shortly, I've no doubt. Lyonel, get Sandor out of his shirt. Benjen, take your sister to her room please." Sandor sat there obediently as the man who'd carried him began to cut away at the fabric of his tunic, his cloak long since discarded. The scraps dropped to the bed, and were swept away in the hands of a maid who'd bustled in the room without Sandor's recollection.

The men leaned in closer to him to get a better look. A few frowned pityingly, a fact which infuriated the boy beyond all reason, but Lyonel and Rickard nodded in relief. "It's not deep. Likely won't scar much, even."

Maester Walys arrived very soon after, with bandages and hot water in tow. Someone—the maid, Sandor thought—lit incense in the corner of the room, all lights dimmed but for the ones the Maester needed to use to examine Sandor's chest. "Lay back now, Sandor. That's a good lad… Relax now."

Relax. _Relax?_ He couldn't do it. He could barely lay down comfortably. All his bones grew rigid, and it took him a few minutes to realize why.

 _The incense._ The smell, the grey, curling wisp of smoke twirling through the room. Ordinarily it might have done its duty in calming Sandor, but in this case it did everything but.

Because he _knew that smell._ He'd been here before, lying in bed with a Maester leaning over him, the incense burning while his grandfather held his hand tight, the only comfort he ever got after _the incident._

The door to his room swung open suddenly, and light from the hall streamed inwards along with three familiar faces. Lyanna went scurrying to her father's arms at once, crying once more and downright screaming hysteria. Benjen was helping Brandon carry something in the room, and Brandon was crowing _look at the size of this beast! Father, you must look at this! Don't worry, Sandor, I'll see you get the pelt._

There, in Brandon and Benjen's arms, was the lioness.

Sandor stared at the body in horror. It was so ugly now, the fur was stained red, the head rolled about loose on its shoulders. It looked like it might detach altogether, so deep was the knife wound Sandor had dealt her. Lyanna was shrieking at Brandon obscenities, calling him a fool for bringing it directly to Sandor so soon after, and Rickard looked furious in general, irate with everyone it felt like.

The incense was burning in the corner of the room, and the remnants of blood still dripped in a soft pitter-patter to the floor, and Lyanna was screaming, and Rickard was shouting at Brandon to _take that damn thing away,_ and…and…

And suddenly the whole world went black.

* * *

"Sandor?"

"…"

"Sandor?"

"…hmm…"

"Sandor? Are you awake?"

Opening his eyes felt like lifting Mikken's largest anvil, and he wasn't rewarded when he managed to succeed. Bright lights burned his vision, and he was spared only by the silhouette of two shadowy shapes blotting out most of the daylight. With two hands, he covered his face and groaned loudly.

"My head…" he mumbled, rolling onto his side away from the window. "Ouch…"

"Hey. Do you want some water? It'll make you feel better." Lyanna was already reaching over for the goblet, topped with cold water no doubt.

"Don't try and make yourself sound smarter," Benjen scoffed at her from across his bed. "You only know that because Maester Walys told us to give him water!" They each had a chair pulled to his bedside, Lyanna mending a shirt—her brothers', Sandor suspected—while Benjen flipped carefully through the pages of what seemed to be a very large, very old book. They'd each abandoned their tasks when he showed signs of movement, though, and now lay discarded on their laps.

Meanwhile, Sandor was trying to understand how he wound up in what looked to be one of the nicer guest rooms in Winterfell. With a hand still covering his eyes from the sun, protecting his aching head, he muttered, "What happened?"

Both siblings dropped their bickering at once, and Lyanna bent closer to him with concern. "You don't remember? It was about a day and a half ago. You passed out…been asleep ever since."

"Yeah." Benjen looked uncertainly at his sister, then at Sandor himself. "Mikken's been really worried for you. He's been in the castle since you got here. Father only just convinced him to go lay down."

"Really?" Sandor started to push himself upright, and cried out in surprise when his chest throbbed unexpectedly.

At once, Lyanna and Benjen leapt into action, pressing him back to the bed by his shoulders. "Careful!" Lyanna said, eyeing the bandage around his chest worriedly. "Walys says you still have much healing to do before threat of infection's passed."

"Infection?" Sandor frowned at them both. "What _happened_ to me?"

"Well…" Benjen sucked in a deep breath. "You…sorta saved my sister's life, Sandor. Don't you remember?"

"I was out for a walk in the woods." Lyanna's face went whiter with every word she spoke. "You…must have wandered into the woods while you were…" she trailed, the look on her face very urgent, almost pleading with him for…for _something._

"While I what?"

"Sandor." Benjen's face grew solemn, and Lyanna's hand reached out to settle gingerly atop his own. "Your grandfather. He…died."

"I'm so sorry," Lyanna added quickly but sincerely, tears filling her eyes as the memories and sorrow seemed to fill Sandor.

Mikken bringing him into the forge. Mikken holding the letter. Mikken telling him…telling him…

Sandor curled away from them, suddenly angry that they were here. Here to see him looking weak, looking like a—like a—

Well. Like a _child._

Both Stark children had enough sense not to mention his sudden withdrawal from them, although Lyanna didn't manage to stifle her affronted huff in time, before Benjen could glare at her and cut her off. The pair of them mouthed words over Sandor's head, words likely about Sandor himself, but he couldn't be bothered to care at the time. His grandfather was dead. The man who had raised him for seven years was gone, dead in a house that didn't care for him, likely hadn't cared for him in years. Sandor thought of his father, tried to remember if Aldor and his son were ever close, and came up with nothing. His memories of life at Clegane Keep were few and far between anymore. Winter Town and its people had eclipsed his old home from his mind. Now all that appeared in his recollections was the face of his brother, filled with hatred and malice, and the bright red brazier seconds before he'd been tossed face-first onto it.

Of his grandfather, he remembered the old man sitting at his bed after the incident, the cane for his missing leg propped on the wall. He remembered Aldor reading to him to pass the time, the young pup he'd left in Sandor's arms one night to hold onto. He remembered saying goodbye to him in Winterfell, watching him limp away, knowing all too well it would be the last he ever saw of the man.

Of his father, he remembered nothing.

"There was a lion." Sandor heard himself speaking, as though through the mouth of a stranger. Lyanna and Benjen looked down at him uneasily. "There was a lion. I… I killed her."

"She was going to kill you," said Lyanna softly, laying the tunic she was working over onto his bed so she could take his hand once more. He blue eyes were a soft hue in the sunlight. "Our father says it's a wonder you weren't killed, or seriously wounded."

"Yeah. Maester Walys says it won't scar at all." Benjen tried smiling hopefully at the younger boy. "That's good, right?"

But Sandor felt like he hadn't heard anything they said.

"I…I killed it. Slit her throat." His mouth was quite dry suddenly, and he reached out for the goblet of water, downing it in several gulps. With shaking hands, he wiped his mouth, caught the dribble of water that had trickled onto his chest, and sighed the most wearisome, heartbroken sigh any child had ever made. "She was just an animal. And I killed her."

"Don't feel _sorry_ about it." Benjen shook his head incredulously. "She would've eaten you and Lyanna for breakfast!"

"Benjen!"

His ears went pink at the tips. "Well, it's _true."_

"Can't you see it bothers Sandor? Gods!" she scowled at him. "You're so _stupid_ sometimes."

"Am not!" cried Benjen, folding his arms angrily. "What's to be bothered about then? It's just a dumb animal!"

"It _wasn't_ a dumb animal!" Sandor glared up at the boy, the scars on his face twisted with his anger now. He wondered dimly what had happened to his cowl, the one his grandfather had forced him to wear everywhere. "She was just hungry! She was hungry and I killed her and—and—and I'm not sorry! I'm not sorry at all!" He wiped his tears with a furious swipe, glaring up at them. "I'm a killer. I killed an animal. And I'm not sorry at all! I'm not sorry a little bit! _I'm as bad as Gregor!"_

Silence filled the room after his outburst, and Sandor spent the time cursing himself for speaking at all. He should have kept quiet. He should have never opened his mouth.

He should've stayed in the south, where they didn't ask questions, and they didn't care, and they left him to live and die and struggle on his own. At least then he could have been with his grandfather when he…when it… He would've _been there._ And he would be able to protect Elinor and make sure nothing bad happened to her, and he could've learnt the sword instead working in Mikken's burning, fiery forge with heat piping from everywhere.

He should have let the lion kill him. Better to be dead than be like Gregor.

"Sandor?"

Breathing through his nose, he almost didn't hear Lyanna's tentative voice, but he felt her hand squeeze gently over his own, felt the heat from her palm ensnaring his.

"Who's Gregor?"

Sandor's mind went blank.

_Don't tell them. Don't tell them. Don'ttellthem—_

But he was so angry. And hurt. And he'd suffered so much for doing nothing wrong, when his _brother_ was alive killing things and hurting people, and he was _rewarded_ for it. Rewarded for being evil.

Sandor hated him. Hated his brother with every bone in his body.

So when he started talking, he didn't stop until the air had run out in his lungs.

"Gregor's my older brother and he's the reason I left. He's bigger than me—bigger than anyone his age, bigger than most kids five or six years older than him, too—and he's…he's… _he's the one who burned my face._ I was playing with his toy and I didn't want to keep it, I only meant to look at it for a while—he didn't even want it!—and then he caught me and he held me over the fire and I screamed and begged and it took two men to pull him off, but by then it was too late and I'm _ugly_ now. And Gregor's a killer and I'm the one who's scarred and punished, and I can't even tell anyone because it would tarnish my family's name. That's what my own father said to me! He said…he said… Gregor's reputation was more important than me nearly _dying_."

Sandor looked between the two Stark children, panting and crying tears of rage. His face was flushed and his palms sweaty, even as he dug his fingers into the sheets.

"Well? Tell me how sorry you are then. Tell me how _sad_ and _pathetic_ my life is!" Sandor screamed at them, "TELL ME!"

But they did no such thing. Benjen looked like he would be ill—ill or start crying himself—and Lyanna's face had gone still as stone, though he thought he saw her hands trembling. The need to apologize was there inside of Sandor, deep down, but the fury he'd unleashed was _months'_ worth of anger. No— _years'_ worth. And now that they knew—now that _someone_ knew—it felt too good to be sorry for yelling, even at Lyanna and Benjen.

And then Lyanna frowned at her lap, and he felt like the worst scum imaginable.

Before he could say sorry, before he could tell them both to forget it and never mention it to Mikken or their father or Brandon, the daughter of Rickard began to talk. And when Lyanna began speaking, it was such a tone he'd never heard her use before, a sort of calm, perfunctory voice that not only demanded his attention, but his respect as well. So he shut his mouth, and waited.

"When I was ten, I snuck into a trial in my father's court. I wore Ben's breeches and a hood so they wouldn't know it was me." Sandor glanced at Benjen, who was staring hard at his sister, an incomprehensive frown on his face that suggested he had no idea where she was going with this. "I sat in the back with the other staff and pretended to have a cold to keep them far enough away so that they couldn't ask questions. I know it was poorly of me to sneak in, but I really wanted to know what was happening at the time, and no one would tell me. And…well…" She swallowed nervously, averted her gaze as she fiddled with the hem of her sleeves. "My mother had just died, you see. I suppose one could say I wasn't keen on obeying rules at the time, even when I knew deep down it was for my own good.

"Talk spread of a man from Winter Town coming on trial for crimes he committed. Horrible crimes. Terrible, nasty things. But whenever I asked what it was he did, no one wanted to tell me. I found out later that my father had forbidden them all from speaking, he thought I was too young to understand. So I snuck in when he thought I was in my lessons, and watched the trial unfold.

"I don't remember the man's name. Or what his profession was even. But he was young—Brandon's age, thereabouts. And he was married to a crofter's daughter. According to several witnesses, he…he was caught sinning with another woman—a servant from our house—and his wife found out. And she didn't like it at all, so she confronted him. Told him he was a villain. Told him she'd leave him and their house and start again somewhere else. And the man was so _angry_ …he stabbed her nine times. But the Maester examined the body, and he said…he said the lady was _damaged._ Said that there were bruises where there shouldn't be, and fingerprints on her neck." Lyanna's hand ghosted over the skin of her own neck, recreating the motion of this man's hands strangling his wife.

"My father was so angry. He said only cowards abuse women, and that he wished there was a way to do the same justice to the man as he'd done to his own wife. He sentenced him to death, and the man was taken outside to the courtyard where he was… _beheaded,"_ she whispered the word as though someone might be outside listening to them speak, listening to her confess her spying from over three years passed.

"I remember thinking to myself, _that man is a monster._ And he was." She met Sandor's gaze fiercely now, unafraid and strong. So very strong. "He deserved to die for what he'd done. He _was_ a coward, and a murderer and a villain. I'm glad my father took his head. I'm _glad._ But you know, all I could think of when I was standing there in Benjen's clothes, was how handsome that man was. How beautiful he looked, even in his dirty clothes and muddy hands. All the maids called him handsome, they called it a real shame someone so beautiful could be so hateful." Lyanna's eyes went hard as steel. "He was beautiful and he was a _monster,_ Sandor. An absolute beast. And you…" She leaned forward, and very lightly traced her fingers over the mottled outline of his cheek. "You're scarred, maybe." Her hand fell to his bandaged chest, to the spot above his racing heart. "But there's goodness inside. And _that's_ what's important. Not your skin. Not your beauty. But your heart, and your compassion.

"Sandor." She folded her hands in her lap, seated upright and proper once more. "I think you are better than you know."


	4. Chapter 4

It was late in the afternoon when Sandor descended from the guest chambers of Winterfell’s Hall, and into the cobblestoned courtyard where a small group of men were awaiting him. The bandage sat snugly against the skin of his chest, and the tunic he’d borrowed from Benjen was large enough that it didn’t restrict his movement. A shock, really, for the boy was a sharply angular, bony thing, despite being three years older than Sandor. He’d half expected it to be too small.

Benjen and Lyanna were, according to the maid who had helped him put his shirt on, attending their lessons at the request of their father. The way she said it made it sound very much like neither had truly _wanted_ to go, and Sandor took some comfort in that.

He wanted to speak with them again, especially Lyanna. _You are more than you know._ And what did that mean?? He was big for his age, and not stupid for sure. He was the second son of a minor house not even in the region of the Stark’s residing land.

How could he possibly be _more_ than he knew he was?

Winterfell castle was a constant bustle of maids and guards. Everyone here had a job to do, everyone had chores and tasks and daily requirements. The guards worked on rotation, and when they did not, they either sparred in the yard or helped teach the young boys how to wield a weapon, or those in higher ranks carried out special tasks from the Lord of Winterfell himself. Maids spent the day cleaning the chambers, washing clothes, mending holes and preparing the dining hall for every meal. Certain maids kept to different floors, although it seemed to be more out of convenience than hierarchy or necessity. Some maids would clean one floors’ worth of rooms, other maids the floor above, and so on.

Though it was spring in the year 279, the cloak Sandor wore made all the difference as he walked to Mikken’s side in the yard. There was a chill in the air he was none too fond of, one that didn’t faze any of the other residents of the north but himself.

It certainly didn’t bother his teacher. Mikken wore nothing but a long-sleeved tunic spun from a heavy wool, and leather breeches tucked into his boots. He had his arms dropped respectfully to either side as he spoke with Rickard Stark, both men deep in the throes of conversation. Brandon was there as well, smiling in a pleased fashion, as though something had gone quite right for once.

He approached them with caution. He hadn’t seen Mikken since taking off into the woods two days ago, and although he knew Benjen’s words suggested that the blacksmith had worried some, he was scared that the man would have something to say for venturing into the woods with naught but a dagger for protection.

Brandon spotted him first, all cheeky grins and a broad, wide wave. “Sandor! Look! You’re up and walking.”

“So I am. Well spotted,” he muttered, but the heir only laughed in good nature.

“…can’t see such raw talent go to _waste,_ Mikken.” Rickard leaned in close to the blacksmith, a hand resting comfortably on the pommel of his greatsword. “Old Rodrik himself said—”

“ _Hang_ what Rodrik said. You’ll get your answer when—there you are, lad!” Mikken turned to face Sandor, all tension melting out of his shoulders with ease. “How are you feeling?”

He lifted a hand to his chest and massaged around the wounds—and the bruises which surrounded it. He’d banged his shoulder something awful when the lion fell atop of him, and it was harder to say which hurt worse: the claw marks or the tender spine. “Sore,” Sandor confessed, grimacing as the attention of all three men and the guards accompanying Lord Stark fell to him. “But…Maester Walys says it’s normal. I’ll be back to how I was in a few days.” His voice grew uncertain as he peered up at Mikken’s unreadable face. “Is…that alright, milord?”

“When have you ever called me _milord?”_ Mikken looked downright horrified, and shot Rickard an accusatory glare. “You’re sure he’s not concussed?”

“Quite sure. Walys looked him over twice.”

“Hmph.” Mikken raked his eyes over Sandor’s body, and looked into his face good and hard. “ _Why_ would everything not be _alright,_ Sandor?”

“Because I won’t be any good to you in the forge for a while. I’m…” he turned a deep shade of scarlet. “I’m…injured.”

“Oh?” Mikken’s two bushy brows went up high into his vanishing hairline. “And have you done anything _permanent_ to yourself then? Lost a leg? Blinded by a stray claw?”

“Well…no.”

“No other injuries that might prove fatal?”

Sandor swallowed roughly, and scowled. “Just…my pride.”

To his surprise, Mikken let out a hoarse laugh. “Aye, well you can get used to that. Young lads suffer injured pride more than any ailment.”

“Oh, yes, you can ask Lord Brandon about that.” Rickard shot his son a patronizing look that spoke volumes of quiet humor. “If pride was a limb, he’d have had his removed by now.”

Poor Brandon was now scowling at them all, folding his arms across his chest and glaring in silent protest. It, of course, only made the two older men grin more so, and a few guards had to turn their heads for a moment. Sandor almost broke into a grin also, but before he could Lord Stark had turned to him once more.

“Besides,” he grew somber, more somber than he’d ever seen his liege. “What you did what no act of cowardice. You saved the life of my daughter. For that you should be proud, not ashamed. You should be rewarded for your bravery.” The Warden of the North glanced over Sandor’s head. “I hope you will be.”

Baffled, Sandor cast his line of sight back and forth from Mikken to Rickard, and found obstinacy on either side.

Rickard nodded to Sandor’s chest suddenly. “Should you bear marks from that day, you will wear them with pride. A testament to your courage, Sandor. And to your loyalty.”

“You did your duty to this House, lad.” Mikken, broken from the silent stand-off, nodded in approval at Sandor, a gesture he’d never seen directed so openly at him before. “You acted well in the circumstances.”

“I’m pleased that Lady Lyanna is safe,” Sandor began slowly. He looked wearily in the direction of the godswood. “If it’s all the same, though, I’d rather not have to face down a lion again.”

Mikken bristled then, perceiving it as a slight, but Rickard diffused any scolding with a careful laugh. It was loud, but gruff, and filled with contempt.

“I wouldn’t worry about that, young Sandor.” Rickard steel gaze bore down hard on his son, sharp enough that Sandor feared it would slice through the young heir entirely. “Lyanna won’t walk alone again now—will she, Brandon?”

Rickard’s son was seething, his jaw set in a hard line. _Embarrassed,_ Sandor thought to himself, although he couldn’t fathom why he would be. “No, father.”

Awkward silence overtook them then, and Sandor was at a loss of what to say or do—much like Mikken was, it would seem. Sandor met his mentor’s eyes with confusion and worry, but found only quiet contemplation in return. Contemplating? What was he contemplating? Did he not want Sandor anymore? Was he going to send him away? Beat him?

“Well. You two have much to discuss, I’m sure.” Rickard clapped a hand on Mikken’s shoulder, bid Sandor a quiet farewell and the promise that they would talk soon. “Brandon,” he called, as he marched back into the castle, and his son trailed after him, the surliest Sandor had ever seen him.

“What was that all about, Mikken?” Sandor tilted his head at him. “Mikken?”

But the man’s gaze was inwards, and his mouth set in a hard line. “Come, Sandor. Rickard’s right. We have much to talk about.”

*

“You want to send me away?” Sandor shouted, throwing himself to his feet.

“It’s not like that, boy, and sit your arse back down.” Mikken waved a hand impatiently at him. “You’ll only disturb your wound like that.”

“I thought…I thought you were pleased with my work?” Sandor frowned. “I thought I was training to be the next blacksmith in Winterfell!”

“There’s no need for another blacksmith—least not one my calibre—and I don’t plan on dying anytime soon. You’d be forced to leave here one day soon, let’s get that squared right this instant.” Mikken sighed, slouched back in his chair. He’d always looked ridiculously large in the chairs he kept, although it was far too _large_ for Sandor, and most other people as well, actually. But he didn’t find anything comical about the situation that moment.

He didn’t find anything amusing at all.

“This is a fine opportunity, Sandor. The sort you could only have dreamt of getting, even a boy your size. Not only has Lord Stark offered you training under Old Ser Rodrik, but he’s giving you a room in his castle. You wouldn’t be learning swords fighting from some lowly footsoldier, you’d be trained by one of the finest knights in the north. Sandor! _Gods,_ y’bloody fool,” Mikken rasped in dry humor. “Lord Stark’s gone and offered to take you in _as his ward._ You’re nothing but a lowborn secondson from the south. A Lannister man, in the eyes of most people ‘round here. This would… Damn it, Sandor, this would tie you to the north in ways I could never do for you.”

They lapsed into silence, both deep in thought—Sandor trying to talk his way out of it and Mikken trying to convince him to accept it—before Mikken finally tried once more.

“It’s a scary thing, given that much respect. Being chosen single-handedly by the most powerful man above the Neck?” He shook his head, tutted to himself in between bites of stew. “Aye. That’s a fine amount of pressure he’s placed on your shoulders. Must be terrifying, the thought of losing it all.”

Sandor, meanwhile, tried to guess the man’s angle and beat him to the punch, circumvent him from making his point. But he had no idea where Mikken’s speech was headed to tell the truth, and so he only listened instead.

“When I came to collect you from the Great Hall, do you know what Lord Stark said to me?” Sandor shook his head. “Well. He said to me, _Mikken. There’s a lad here from the south, his grandfather brought him here this afternoon. I spoke with him a little while at supper, and he’s a fine intelligent boy of seven namedays. The makings of a strong, hearty man._ And I said to him, _Lord Stark, what do you want me to do with a seven year-old child?_ May it surprise you to know, I don’t have experience with children much.”

Sandor fought the grin down, unwilling to give an inch to his mentor. _His_ mentor.

“And he said to me, Lord Stark did, he said _I don’t think his grandfather will live very much longer, and it will please me to fulfill a dying man’s wish, and give his grandson the best I can give him.”_ Mikken swallowed another mouthful of stew, and then sipped his ale. It trickled into his beard a little, a dark brown stream that would make his face sticky and grimy in seconds.

“Never met your grandfather, Sandor. And I wish I had. To have the courage to pluck up your grandson from his father’s nose and take him north, along with his newborn sister.” He made a throaty sound to suggest he was deeply impressed. “I wish I had met him very much.

“But you know, lad, your grandfather came and asked the Lord of Winterfell to give you the best he could give you at the time being. And at the time being, that was to become my apprentice. And you’ve done a bloody fine job!” Mikken slammed a hand down on the table, rattling the bowls and forks. “A _fine_ job. And now you’ve been given the chance for something _better._ I think—if I may be so bold—your grandfather would want you to seize this chance with both hands. To the hells with your fear! _Damn_ those who try to stand in your way!”

Mikken leveled a fat, blunt finger at him, with enough dirt caked under his fingernails to the point of blackness. “All your foes are meat. And you’re the butcher. Comes a time when you’ve got to take your sword and carve a path for yourself. Can you do it, lad? Can you be brave enough to try? For your grandfather, if nothing else.”

Sandor was breathing through his nose like a bull, loud and strong, and his hands were clenched in small fists over his knees, tucked under the table and out of Mikken’s sight. The speech he gave hadn’t angered Sandor—not at all—but the talk of his grandfather had pierced something in his heart, to hear him spoken of in kind words, to hear someone remind him of the good…

He swallowed back his shaking emotions and clung to the hard pounding of his heart.

“I…” he faltered, and tried again with conviction this time. “I will think on it tonight. I…can do that, can’t I?”

But Mikken didn’t look any happier to hear his grudging consideration. He stood up, as the cook came in to collect the dishes. Sandor knew he had work to catch up on, work that couldn’t wait for morning. But Mikken had excused _him_ from his duties until he was both better, and until he’d made a conclusive decision on Lord Stark’s fine offer.

“You’re not convinced.” No, Mikken didn’t sound impressed at all. “Very well. Grab your cloak, Sandor.” He nodded brusquely at the corner of the room, where his heaviest cloak laid folded atop a chair.

“Where are we going?”

“Out.” The older man swung open the front door and made to usher Sandor outside with an impatient wave of his hand. “To show you something that might change your mind.”

*

It was not dark by the time they made it outside of Winter Town. They had eaten dinner early, and it was just then that the rest of the town was starting to sit down for their own supper. The fires burning in every hearth sent plumes of smoke high into the air, one for every house and inn from Mikken’s forge to the outskirts of town.

Sandor asked, repeatedly, where they were going, but he was met with the same answer every time he tried.

“Don’t ask questions, boy.”

He huffed, folded his right arm across his chest, mindful of his wounds, and tried his hardest to match Mikken’s long stride. The man was walking with a purpose, unstoppable as the change in seasons, and Sandor dared not try to dissuade him from his march—even though he was cold, sore and tired. Not to mention terribly overwhelmed by the prospect of up and leaving his second home, the happiest he’d been in a long, long while.

The houses on the outskirts of Winterfell were often farmers and wealthier houses, middleclass families that didn’t need to shack up mere arms’ length away from their next-door neighbour. Great stretches of land circulated by icy rippling streams surrounded the keep, reaching from the heart of Winterfell’s godswood and trickling outwards all the way to the sea.

And by the time Mikken and Sandor reached the door of the first home, it was dark out, and the torch Mikken had carried was a necessity now. He held it aloft in the air, their only source of light, and Sandor followed as closely as he dared. In the shadows he could scarcely make out anything other than that of the tall outline of the front of the stone house, but it was big enough to tell of the family’s wealth.

“Mind yourself now, lad,” said Mikken, not unkindly, before lifting a fist and knocking three times.

It was a cacophony of noise that erupted hence, dogs barking, children screaming and a woman shouting for peace. Over his head, Sandor thought he saw Mikken grimace and make a face akin to guilt. There was a rumble suggesting an argument, the voice of a tired man pleading with someone—his wife or the screaming children—and then there was silence, save for a baby crying.

Mikken held up the torch with a steady hand, the other on the unwounded shoulder of his young charge. The girl who greeted them, a woman of maybe thirty years, give or take, frowned at the pair of them, though she tried to hide it. Her hair was falling from the hold of its braids, and her face was lined with fatigue.

“Good ev’nin to you, milords.” She squinted at them through the dark. “Can I be of help to you?”

“Evening to you.” Mikken nodded with a grunt. “May we come in?”

Frowning deeply now, she gave her ascent, albeit unhappily, and stepped back into the shadows of the door. “Right this way, milords. I’ll…fetch milord and lady presently, if ye please.”

“Thank you. And I’m no lord.”

The maid didn’t say anything to Mikken’s words, merely turned and fled as soon as they had shut the door behind them.

Sandor blinked twice against the bright candlelight so contrastive to the night sky, and removed his cloak slowly, cautiously. He had never ventured outside the borders of town before, not even for a walk, and though he’d passed the farmland on the way in, he couldn’t recall truly looking at the land as anything but barren.

Such was of course not true. Northern land, though harder than the south, was by no means infertile. It was a lesson Mikken had taught him one night at supper, when Sandor had questioned where Winterfell got their food from.

He and Mikken sat in a warmly furnished room, directly left of the front door, with a fireplace roaring at the hearth. The seating was padded and the room was warm. The wet mist which had dampened his clothes was dried away in no time.

They didn’t have to wait long. Footsteps signalled a larger man’s approach and then—

“Mikken?”

The man in question stood and turned, nodded respectfully to who Sandor could only presume was their host. It was a taller man, tall and skinny, with sandy brown hair and dark eyes that flickered in the firelight. He walked over with an outstretched hand, motioning for Mikken to take a seat once more, next to himself. Sandor stayed where he was, in the chair across from them.

“Tilla said it was you here. I did not expect it.” He rubbed a fist against his eyes, hard, and fought off a yawn with visible difficulty. “It’s a long walk from your shop. What brings you out here?”

“Have you heard?” began the blacksmith with no preamble whatsoever. “Of Lyanna Stark?”

The man grimaced and nodded once slowly. “I’d heard. My brother came out and told me this morning. The lady is alright, though?”

Mikken leaned back in his chair, puffed out his chest. “Not a scratch on her, fortunately.”

“Hmm. The gods favor her.” Their host—who was increasingly familiar to look at—sighed and shook his head tiredly. “Can you fathom it, if something were to happen to Lord Stark’s daughter—after what losing Lyarra did to the man? Yes,” he nodded to himself, “the gods favor the Starks indeed.”

“Favor of the gods has little to do with it this time,” Mikken said with his continuously boastful grace. Sandor, starting to feel rather ignored, shifted in his seat, tried to gather his wits and words and predict what Mikken would want him to say. He knew, having been taught by his grandfather, that children speak when spoken to. And Sandor didn’t really mind it, but for the fact that he was expected to say the perfect thing when he _was_ spoken to, a fact which didn’t change in the north or south.

“It was young Sandor here who saved her.”

Both men turned then to look at the boy he spoke of, the scarred child whose body was rapidly shedding the clothes Mikken bought for him. _You can run about naked if you grow an inch in the next month,_ he’d growled quite recently to him.

“Sandor, is it?” the man smiled, perfectly polite until he realized what had just been said. _“Sandor,_ you say??”

“It is.” Mikken’s mouth, hidden beneath his beard, dared to curl into a self-satisfied smile. “Sandor, this is Martyn Cassel. You’ve met before.”

“I…I have?” Sandor fought to place the face in his mind. Tall, skinny, smiling sympathetically at him, offering a pat on the shoulder—“Oh!”

Both men chuckled and sank back into the stuffed chairs. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Again.” Martyn offered a genial nod of his head and Sandor responded in kind.

“Pleased to meet you as well.”

“Such a smart boy,” laughed Martyn. “How did _you_ manage to make him smart, Mikken?”

“I did no such thing.” Mikken glanced over at the boy, a faint flicker of amusement in his eyes. “He came like that.”

Martyn smiled widely through his laughter, and rested his head on a propped up fist, surveying the pair of them in quiet contemplation. “I am glad to see you are well, Sandor. How do you find our cold land? Many southron visitors go running home, earlier than they planned.”

“It’s…quiet.” Sandor wasn’t sure what else to say. He didn’t mean quiet in a bad way, as in boring or monotonous. Quiet, as in peaceful. Quiet, as in a refreshing change from the chaos and turmoil in Clegane Keep. “I like it.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Martyn rubbed a hand over his bearded chin. “I’m sure it is quite different from what you were used to.”

“It is.” Sandor’s brow furrowed deeply. “I didn’t like what I was used to.”

The two men fell silent at that, and shared a look with each other that went over Sandor’s head.

“You’ll remember Ser Martyn here was the man who took in your sister.” Mikken spoke in a long, winding sort of way. Sandor’s heart froze in his chest; he _had_ known that in fact, but to hear it reaffirmed was enough to make his limbs go weak. He nearly stood up in his seat to crane his head in the direction of the room across the hall, the room where the sound of a babe crying could be heard, loud and strong.

“Oh, she’s a good lass, healthy and happy.” Martyn smiled at Sandor, who was still preoccupied trying to catch a glimpse of his little sister. “I haven’t ever had a child so sweet before. My lads were all right bloody terrors. Mind,” he glanced over at the sound of the baby’s wailing, “she does hate being put down to sleep…”

Sandor could hardly breathe. All he had wanted since coming north was to be allowed to see Elinor, and now she was so close, in the room just across the hall, brightly lit and filled with the whispers of children playing, the occasional thud and commotion of young boys rough-housing.

She was so close.

“I’m sorry to come so late in the evening, friend. You see, Sandor here’s been offered a damn good opportunity by Lord Stark. Seeing as he was the one to save Lyanna and all.”

“Was he?” Martyn raised both brows high on his forehead, incredulity flooding his face. “Gods above—they told me it was a lioness who attacked her!”

“It was. The lad killed her, with a bloody dagger no less.” The blacksmith of Winterfell held up his hands apart, the gap roughly fitting the size of the blade Sandor had used.

“Gods be damned!” Martyn gaped at Mikken, then at Sandor. “You did it, lad? Truly?”

“He did,” said Mikken swiftly. “The bones of the beast are in Winterfell right now, skinned and stripped of its meat. Lord Stark had his hesitations about roasting the beastie, but in the end sense won out. No use wasting so much meat.”

Martyn didn’t respond, only continued to look impressed. “And I suppose Himself was grateful for your help, Sandor? The whole of Westeros knows how much he loves his children.”

“He is extremely grateful.” The large, sooty hands were clasped between his knees, Mikken’s back hunched as he leaned forwards. “Martyn. Lord Stark has asked Old Ser Rodrik to take Sandor on in training, that Sandor would live in the guest quarters as a ward of House Stark.”

“A—A _ward?_ Well that’s wonderful news!” Martyn smacked his thighs with both hands, stunned laughter bursting from his lips. “I’ll admit, you’ll have a fair hard time with my brother. He’s not known to be a lenient man. I got all the patience, see.”

Sandor spoke up then, interest piqued. “Brother?”

“Mmph. Oh, that’s right.” Mikken’s voice was entirely smug now. “Did I not say so before? Ser Rodrik is Ser Martyn Cassel’s brother.”

“No,” Sandor said quietly. “No, you didn’t say.”

He looked away then, for suddenly their spontaneous visit made complete sense to Sandor. He hadn’t realized the connection between bringing him to his little sister and the position as Rickard Stark’s ward, but it was plain to see now. Martyn was a guard of the castle. If anything, he would at least get to hear stories of Elinor’s growth on occasion. But the combination of Sandor’s would-be tutor and Martyn being brothers somehow made the idea of seeing Elinor regularly that much easier to fathom. It was a damn better chance than he had living with Mikken, anyways.

His head bowed to his chest, as he let the conversation of the other two men weave away overhead. His hands clenched in fists in his lap, as he worked furiously through the pros and cons of leaving Mikken. In truth, he could come up with little reason to _not_ go live in Winterfell, no reasons that were of value, other than the simple fact he was scared.

That was it. Sandor Clegane was scared.

It was such a change, so different from anything he would have done. Clegane Keep might have been a proper house, but he’d always known they weren’t important. He felt more at home living in the ramshackle abode Mikken kept rather than the mere thought of staying in that room he’d recovered in for the rest of his childhood. Longer, possibly.

But now with the added temptation of Elinor…could he truly refuse?

“What’s going on here, men?”

Everyone stood up, including Sandor, and turned to the doorway. There stood, in what Sandor could only assume was her sleeping gown and pleated black hair, was a woman of Martyn’s age. She was neither exceptionally pretty, nor was she slender. Her middle was rounded after carrying numerous children in her womb, and her face lined with wrinkles that would only get deeper with age.

And yet, she looked warm to the boy. Warm, and soft. He imagined being her son, imagined what it would be like to curl into her side as a child, hidden under the cloak of her long, heavy hair. Must be nice.

And then his eyes wandered down, to the lady’s arms, curled gently around the tiny body of a fussing baby, legs kicking to and fro, arms waving up and down in protestation. A patch of black curls sprouted out from the top of her head and to the tips of her ears, soft and fuzzy. The baby faced Sandor, with an unhappy wail, muffled by her own fists shoved into her mouth.

He swallowed roughly. “Elinor.”

Could he truly refuse the chance to ever see her again, after this?

No, he could not.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sword fighting advice Brandon gives Sandor is not made up off the top of my head, just btw. It's from a how-to video off of good old YouTube, if I remember correctly. Something like old Germanic sword fighting... Is that a thing? I don't think that's a thing... Meh. Something like that. Point is, I am not a wealth of sword-fighting knowledge. So, along with Brandon's parrying advice, I don't own any of the characters or plot from the world of Westeros. 
> 
> This has been a disclaimer. Thank you.  
> Enjoy!

“Keep the flat side up more, facing out.”

Sandor adjusted his stance, turning the blade’s flat edge out as instructed.

“That’s it. And—no, you want the sword’s length to block your body. Here, watch me.”

He turned to his temporary instructor, watching with a combination of envy and admiration. The sword his demonstrator used was nearly twice the size of his own, and ten times as sharp. In fact, the only reason Sandor was allowed to use real steel at all was because he was only practicing motions, going through movements over and over on his own time.

They were in the godswood, not too far from the springs that ran throughout the forest. It had taken some coaxing on Brandon’s part to get Sandor into the woods again after the near-death experience there, but in the end Sandor’s refusal to be weak won out. That, and he truly couldn’t turn down the chance to train under the Heir of Winterfell’s critical eye.

Brandon Stark had his sword out, a beautiful display of Mikken’s skill as a blacksmith, and was showing Sandor how best to execute a parry. He stood facing Sandor, with his feet shoulder-width apart, and his hands both securely affixed to his hilt.

“You want to lift the tip so it makes a straight line, from _this_ position”—Brandon started with the blade angled downwards across his body, pointed to his boots—“to _this_ position.” And he brought up the blade in what Sandor was sure was a perfect parry, drawing the blade up evenly and steadily.

“You understand?”

Sandor nodded.

“Good. Now try again, and this time go slower. You need to get the movement memorized in your hands first, then you add speed.”

“And then I start parrying for true,” said Sandor, already shifting back into first position. Brandon chuckled, and sheathed his own sword once more.

“And then you start to parry, yes. Won’t be long now, I say. Old Ser Rodrik will have you sparring with the other lads in no time.”

It was an exciting thought, for many reasons. Ever since moving into Winterfell’s walls, Sandor had been training with other boys around his age in the yard with Ser Rodrik Cassel as their teacher. Much like Martyn Cassel had warned him, his teacher was as skilled as he was demanding. There was no room for stupidity once they began training, and Sandor had witnessed his peers be sent out of the fenced pen many a time over such stupid things like squabbling, mock-fighting or simply talking out of turn.

Sandor seemed to excel at staying out of trouble with the old knight, though it wasn’t entirely a conscious effort. No, in truth there were simply no lads who wanted anything to do with him. Every one of them shied away from him for the first several weeks, or else gaped at his face like a hideous monstrosity. Both types were repellent as friends for obvious reasons.

The chance to spar with them would, at least, be a way to prove himself to any doubters, a way to show off his talent with a sword—something Brandon himself called a great gift from the gods. The chance, at long last, to show the other boys that his scar hadn’t impaired his ability to fight or to see.

That he was, for all intents and purposes, whole and strong.

Of course, there was the added benefit of Lord Stark witnessing his skills with his own eyes.

The Lord of Winterfell had made several trips over the past weeks, ever since Sandor had arrived, to come and supervise the way the future soldiers of Winterfell were progressing. The Warden was always somber about his duty, though he interfered very little and never without Ser Rodrik’s expressed approval. At the end of each training session, he would pace before the line of boys (including Sandor) and offer a critique for maybe three of them. Never cruel, but never soft. Always firm.

For Sandor, he rarely said anything. Not because Sandor was a great fighter—not yet, he wasn’t—but because he truthfully hadn’t gotten the chance to spar yet. As the earliest and youngest of the recruits, his time fighting was minimal. But Lord Stark would always pause in front of him, a strange glint in his eyes akin to approval, and then turn and walk on, back inside to hear the smallfolk’s complaints for the day.

If it was a sin to be proud, then Sandor had sinned many times since that moment when Rickard Stark looked down on him with quiet encouragement.

And it _was_ such encouragement, the thought of getting to make his liege lord nod in approval at Sandor’s fighting. His nightmares of Gregor slowly dissipated into visions of fighting, dreams of being knighted, of traveling the whole of the north and earning praise and titles wherever he went.

And maybe on his travels he would see Lyanna, the great lady of some northern keep, while Brandon ruled Winterfell and Benjen travelled with him, two great knights fighting for Winterfell. They could compete in tourneys together. Jousting. Swordfighting. Any and all sorts of competition they could find.

Or maybe they would fight in a great battle, for the honor of the north, for the safety of her people. And Sandor would return home afterwards with the other soldiers and be welcomed as a knight, as a war hero…

“Sandor. Sandor? _Sandor!”_

He jerked his head sharply at his name, dimly aware that someone had been talking to him for some time and receiving no answer.

Brandon was frowning, though a perplexed smile still cautiously touched the corners of his mouth. “I’ve told you _three_ _times_ now to fix your stance. Old Rodrik will box your ears if he ever has to do that.”

Blushing hotly—grateful for his scars in a rare occasion, for the fact that they hid the redness of half his face—Sandor hastened to correct his grip and shift his weight between feet. “Sorry, milord,” he mumbled, a reflexive response to being scolded, even as mildly as Brandon had done.

But Brandon made a disappointed sound nonetheless. “Ah, now don’t start that up again. I _told_ you. My father is the Lord of Winterfell. You call me _milord,_ it makes me feel ancient.”

“Course.” Sandor dared to grin slightly at the young man. “Although I don’t think Lord Stark would be happy to hear you call him _ancient.”_

They shared a laugh, Brandon’s much louder and freer than Sandor’s would ever be, and the scarred boy followed Brandon’s lead in sheathing their swords and setting them in the mossy ground at their feet.

“Sit. Rest a while.” He stretched out, hands propped behind him, and motioned for Sandor to do the same. “Your head’s been in the sky all afternoon. I’m surprised Ser Rodrik really _hasn’t_ boxed your ears yet.” He bumped his arm casually against the side of Sandor which was closest to him. “Is it because of your visit last night? I hear you got to see your wee sister again. Must have been nice.”

Sandor looked away at once, careful to hide the grimace. He’d been careful not to mention anything of substance pertaining to his visit, careful not to talk about it much at all. Last night was the first time he’d seen Elinor since Mikken and he had visited some months ago. He’d been excited as ever, of course, when Martyn extended the dinner invitation via Rodrik. All he’d heard of the young babe he’d seen was that she spoke few words now, frequently attempted to mimic the fat cat’s meowing, and very much enjoyed pulling any and all curls of hair which came within her grasp.

But the visit had been sour to the taste, like taking a bite of an apple and finding it not yet ripe. Little Elinor had long since forgotten any memories of Clegane Keep—and while Sandor didn’t grudge her the chance to start fresh with a new mother, a new father and brothers who were happy and kind and whole (no, he didn’t feel sour _at all)_ —most regrettably of all, the loss of her memories of Clegane Keep included those of Sandor himself.

He was a stranger to her. Foreign and fearsome as the monsters they spoke of in children’s tales, and his face did nothing to bring the sort of happiness to her as she did for him.

Martyn’s wife, a plump and homely woman named Jyna, had been quick to reassure him, a squirming Elinor whining and fussing in her arms.

“She’s very shy, dear. Give her some time to warm up. You’ll see.” Jyna smiled and nodded eagerly, too eagerly. “She’ll be crawling all over you in no time.”

Time was not a luxury he could indulge in. It never was.

Rodrik, who had accompanied his brother on the visit home, walked beside Sandor in a respectful silence all the way back to Winterfell’s keep, not daring to intrude on the boy’s private, tumultuous thoughts. But before they had parted, Rodrik did offer a small piece of advice, a morsel of hope to carry in Sandor’s pocket.

“If you want to be seen as who you are, you must give her reason to see it.”

He’d left Sandor then without another word, and Sandor was grateful to see him go, happy to be left alone to walk back to his rooms, back to the chamber he kept permanently in the guest quarters of the Winterfell.

“Ser Martyn and his lady wife were very kind to me. I was honored to eat in their home.”

Brandon made a low and slow sound of understanding. “Ah. I know _that_ tone. What is it? Ser Martyn is treating her well, is he not? My father would see her in a new home if you—”

“It is not that.” Sandor flicked a pebble into the river, the warm waters rushing and sweeping none too far from their feet. “Elinor seems very happy and cared for there.” In fact, the idea that she wasn’t being well cared for by Martyn Cassel hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“Oh…” Brandon squinted at him, as though looking hard at Sandor’s face would help determine the cause of his silent confliction. “Are you jealous then?”

“No!” Yes.

“Do you wish you could live there instead?”

“No _.”_ A little.

“Do you have second thoughts about leaving Mikken?”

“ _No_.” All the time.

“Well then? What is it?” Brandon prodded his side once with a sharp jab, enough to make Sandor scowl, and in turn to make Brandon laugh. “What good is being the Heir to Winterfell if I can’t be privy to my friend’s deepest secrets?”

He rolled his eyes at Brandon. “Simply no good at all, I guess.”

Brandon’s smile slowly receded, leaving curiosity in its absence. “Truly, I wish to know. Tell me what makes you so gloomy to see your sister.”

Sandor sucked in a long, deep breath. “Well…” he faltered momentarily, worried how weak he would seem to Brandon, how frail. “It’s stupid, really. I don’t know what I expected. She was only a babe when we left Clegane Keep.” Brandon said nothing, only nodded with his eyes focused intently on Sandor. “And…it was so long ago. Feels like a lifetime ago since…”

Since mother and father. Since his grandfather. Since Gregor and the fire, _the Incident,_ and the dogs who started dying all of the sudden…

“It just all feels like a faraway dream now.” Sandor swallowed quietly. “Except for Elinor. She was always there, you know? She was all I had left. Even when I didn’t see her, didn’t know where she was, I knew she was around, somewhere. She was like…rope, connecting me to some place.” His gaze fell on his hands, his fingers sliding into the dirt, up to his knuckles. “Not a place, I guess. Just…to her. We were tied together.”

_And now we’re not._

The words were too painful to utter, too pathetic to speak. So Sandor shut his mouth and shook his head once, to clear his mind. “M’sorry about practice today.”

Brandon’s smile was faint, a glimmer of what it once was. His mind was suddenly the one which wandered. “No, no… Quite alright.” He glanced over his shoulder, back in the direction of the clearing where sat Lyanna and Benjen, each going over their sums, each miserable to do so.

“Between you and me,” Brandon said with a raised voice, a conspiring smile blooming on his face, “sisters are a right pain in the ass anyways!”

“Hey!”

Lyanna shouted at them from her place under the tree, and tossed the parchment and quill aside angrily. “Pardon me, _good Sers,_ but what was that I heard?”

Her brother didn’t shy away from her, not even when she marched up to them and towered threateningly overhead. Sandor, at least, had the common sense to look at Brandon and say nothing incriminating.

“What? Gods know it’s true.” Brandon sighed ruefully, staring back out into the depths of the forest, past the river and into the trees ahead. “What I wouldn’t give to be rid of my little sister for a few hours, and finally get some peace and— _argh!”_

His voice cut off into surprised pain, when Lyanna—in a bold, unexpected move—leapt at her oldest brother’s shoulders, knocking him sideways to the ground with her weight.

“Take that back!” she shouted, and Sandor scrambled backwards away from the brawling siblings. Benjen had walked over briskly, but it seemed he intended to watch more than interfere, hands shoved in the pockets of his breeches.

Sandor rose to his feet and stood beside him, an uncertain mixture of wary and amused. He was now Benjen’s height, a fact he knew the boy detested. Sandor was as tall as any boy Ben’s age, though.

Lyanna and Brandon rolled over in the dirt, her skirts catching on twigs and rocks and all sorts of things Sandor knew she’d be scolded fiercely for later on. As for Brandon, the pigheaded heir had both hands raised in that moment, laughing through her not-entirely-playful blows, yelping when she seized his long curls and yanked mercilessly.

“Seven hells,” Benjen mumbled, shaking his head at them.

“Should we stop them?”

“No,” said Ben, with a cautious glance around the clearing. No one could be seen in any direction. “Won’t be so bad so long as they aren’t caught. Lya’s going to get a terrible scolding for her dress, though.”

Sandor didn’t think that was entirely fair, though he had already known it to be the case. Brandon was, after all, growing just as filthy and unkempt as his sister was.

“How long will it last?”

Benjen didn’t answer him, both boys wincing when Lyanna managed to seize a handful of mud and, with a wet splat, smack it down atop Brandon’s hair. True anger appeared on Brandon’s face then, and he tried to rein her temper in quickly, though it was too late.

“My father calls it wolfblooded.” The youngest of Stark boys sighed in dismay, watching his brother and sister begin to push and pull at each other, Brandon trying valiantly to get Lyanna off, and Lyanna trying with all her might to hold on.

“Only Brandon and Lyanna seem to share it. Thank the gods,” he added, nodding fervently at Sandor. Sandor didn’t say anything in response to that, trying to work through what Benjen meant by _wolfblooded_ , and Lyanna began shouting obscenities at Brandon.

“Arrogant! Lazy! Fatheaded _toad!”_

“Is this supposed to prove me wrong? OUCH, Lyanna! Get _off_ of me, crazy devil!” With a roar, Brandon managed to heft her weight off of him, freeing his legs. “Sandor! Come help me with her, would you?”

Before Sandor could move—or else make up a reason to head back to the castle, as he had no intention of fighting Lord Stark’s daughter—Lyanna gave a cry of indignation.

“You can’t take Sandor! He’s _my_ friend!” She turned, standing upright now, and smiled widely at Sandor in what she doubtless hoped was an alluring gesture. “Come on, Sandor. Help me throw dirt at my stupid brother.”

“Uh, no, I can’t…”

_“Yours?”_ Brandon echoed in loud disbelief. “What makes him yours? I haven’t seen you do much for him. _I_ actually help him with his sword.”

“Help him what? Forget everything Rodrik taught him?” she scoffed.

“Now _that’s_ rich. Tell me the first thing _you_ know about sword fighting.”

“I know plenty!” Lyanna stomped her feet, hands clenched in fists at her sides. “Just because I’m not eager to run around waving my sword and spouting my greatness at every creature that moves—”

_“And what’s that supposed to mean?”_

Sandor glanced back at Benjen, who had begun to creep away slowly from his siblings. His quiet mutter of _uh oh_ had drawn Sandor’s attention, and now it was made very clear that Sandor was about to witness a fight that would go down in history books. A fight that would be remembered for ages.

“Here’s a thought. Why don’t we let Sandor decide whose side he’s on?” Lyanna and Brandon turned to him then, fierce and as wild as wolves themselves. “Well, Sandor?”

The two boys shared identical looks of horror. “Run, Sandor!” Ben cried, and sprinted away, half-laughing. Sandor wasn’t far behind him, moving as quick as a cat, as fast as his legs would carry him—

Yet it wasn’t long at all before a pair of arms tackled him to the ground. Sandor nearly lost his breath, staring blankly at the face looming over his head with disbelief.

“Traitor!” Brandon shouted, and wiggled his fingers against Sandor’s sides. It wasn’t long before he had Sandor in stitches, legs kicking under Brandon’s weight, laughing harder than he could ever remember doing. “Us men are supposed to band together, Sandor! Did no one ever tell you?”

“Don’t listen to him, Sandor!” cried Lyanna, who was collapsed in the grass, giggling herself. Benjen wandered over to her side and sat down, identical expressions of mirth on his and Lyanna’s young faces.

The ordeal finally ended with Brandon relenting, and letting Sandor up to breathe. Panting hard, as though he’d been running the whole time, Sandor sat up with one hand propped on the ground behind him. The four of them were seated in a strange, lopsided square, with Ben and Lyanna hip to hip, and he and Brandon across from them, a little further apart.

“Seven hells,” muttered Lyanna, glancing down despairingly at her strained skirts. “Father will have my head for this. I look like I rolled in a riverbank all day!”

“Might as well have,” teased Brandon, until he saw the genuine hint of worry on her face. Sobered at once, he leaned in towards her fractionally. “Hey. I’ll make sure he knows I pushed you. Alright?”

Lyanna paused uncertainly. “Yeah. Thanks, Bran.” She sounded extremely sincere.

“You’re welcome, sister.”

There was a moment of silence, before Benjen broke it with a loud outcry of, “Well, I’m in trouble, too! I haven’t done any of my lessons!”

“And whose to blame there??” asked Brandon with an incredulous voice. “I told you that you wouldn’t do any work watching Sandor and I practice, you bloody idiot.”

“Aren’t you going to tell father it was your fault too?”

“Not a chance!”

Benjen pouted. “You’d do it if it was _Sandor_ whose lessons weren’t done.”

“Sandor doesn’t _get_ House history lessons, you dolt. Lucky bastard that he is,” Brandon added with a generous wink at himself. “Besides. I _like_ Sandor. _You’re_ just a pain, is all.”

The conversation dwindled into silence and heavy breathing. Sandor leaned back on his palms, surveying his young companions. It was rare to get the three of them outside all to himself. No guards nearby, no responsibilities to pester them. He caught Lyanna’s smiling eyes and blushed, looking away hastily, though he wasn’t sure why.

“It won’t always be like this,” said Lyanna wistfully, reading Sandor’s mind.

Brandon made an impatient sound of disgust. “Don’t remind us of the future just yet, little sister. It’s too early for that.”

“You’ll have to think of it soon enough,” Benjen piped up, glancing cautiously at Sandor then back to his brother. “You’ll be leaving soon.”

Brandon and Lyanna made identical faces of dismay, leaving Sandor alone in his confusion. The heir to Winterfell raked his fingers through the loose dirt on the ground, contemplating Benjen’s words no doubt.    

Sandor remained silent for a moment out of respect, and then turned to the young man he practically worshipped.

“Where are you going?”

“Riverrun,” Brandon replied, not pausing in the movement of his fingers through the earth. “To announce my betrothal to Lord Tully’s oldest girl, Lady Catelyn.”

“Really?” Sandor made a face. “You’re getting married??”

The Heir of Winterfell laughed sourly. “No, no. She’s too young yet. No, I’m to announce my engagement, pay a suitable amount of time among her family and friends, and then return home.” He sounded like he was quoting instructions previously given to him. In fact, Sandor didn’t doubt he was doing just that.

When Sandor sought out the faces of the two other Starklings, he found them looking just as despondent and glum as Brandon sounded.

“Is…that bad?” he asked hesitantly.

Lyanna huffed. “It means it’s started. _The divide._ One day I’ll be shipped off to another Keep and Brandon will become the Lord of Winterfell and Benjen will have to make his own way in the world. So will Ned, though he sounds happy enough, traipsing about the Eyrie with Robert Baratheon. Insufferable idiots.”

“Enough of that.” Brandon got to his feet, and helped Lyanna do the same. The oldest Stark children brushed their respective fronts with sweeping hands, though it did little to salvage Lyanna’s stained skirts. “It’s a ways off yet, little sister. And father will choose a good man for you, you know it.”

“No, I don’t,” she mumbled, barely loud enough for Sandor to hear. Brandon pretended not to hear her at all.

“Come on, brother. Time to wash up and do your lessons.” Brandon dragged Benjen along with a casual but strong arm draped over his skinny shoulders. They left Lyanna and Sandor to trudge behind them, Sandor’s chin tucked to his chest in careful consideration of everything Brandon had told him. The thought of the heir leaving, even for a short period of time, made him unreasonably sad. He’d never really _missed_ anyone before, none who were tied to him by blood, and the idea made his chest ache.

On a more positive note, he had completely forgotten about the unfortunate drama with Elinor the past night.

“I wish I could be like them,” Lyanna spoke without warning, her hands buried in the skirts of his soiled dress. Sandor glanced up at her with a furrowed brow.

“You wish you were a boy?”

“ _No_. I wish I could be free. Free to make my own choices. Free to decide what I want for myself.”

Privately, Sandor didn’t think either boy was free to do what they wished. Brandon was being forced to marry a girl he clearly didn’t care for and Benjen had nothing lined up for his future at all. The former wasn’t a choice to be made, and the latter wasn’t the sort of freedom Sandor would ever want. Benjen’s freedom was more like a box of sweets with a rapidly approaching spoiling date. And when that date came, when the sweets were gone, there’d be nothing left for him.

But he didn’t say that to Lyanna, who looked far too glum to argue with at the time.

He cautiously bumped his shoulder against hers, hands deep in his pockets, the sword slung over his shoulder in its scabbard.

“You’ll be the Lady of a keep one day. Free to rule that as you please.” It was a poor consolation, and even at his young age Sandor knew that. He tried again. “Mayhap your lord husband will be too stupid to rule, and you’ll get to make all the important decisions.”

Lyanna cracked an unwilling smile at him. “Hmm. Mayhap…”

“You could ride horses and wear breeches and roll around in dirt all day long.”

Lyanna burst out laughing, giddy at the prospect. “Now that’s a thought!”

She looked to him suddenly and stopped walking. Brandon and Benjen had wandered far ahead by now, but the castle was in sight. They weren’t in any conceivable danger; Brandon rarely let Lyanna out of her sight when they went into the woods, ever since the incident with the lioness. Lyanna had confessed to Sandor one night, pacing the courtyard, that Brandon’s responsibilities had included minding herself for as long as she’d been alive. She had a nursemaid as a child, and the Maester taught her lessons, but she didn’t truthfully have much in the line of caregiver outside of Brandon. Sandor wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed beforehand.

At that moment, Lyanna frowned at him, quietly perplexed. “Why are you being so kind to me?”

“W-what?”

“Trying to cheer me up. Telling me that—about my future husband. Why are you saying this?”

Sandor felt his hackles rise against his will. “I thought we were friends,” he said with a fierce edge to his words, a sharp barb meant to protect himself from whatever painful blow Lyanna would lay next.

But the young girl only smiled at him, so suddenly upbeat that it made Sandor’s head spin. “I hoped you might say that!” She reached out and took his sweaty, clammy hands in her own and squeezed them tightly. Her hands were soft and supple beneath his fingers, and he dared not press too hard lest he damage her fine skin with his own sullied palms.

“We are friends, Sandor. I know so.” She looked into his eyes eagerly, almost at level with her own gaze. Sandor was getting older, getting taller, and getting stronger with each passing week. It made his bones ache, but the idea of finally matching Lyanna’s height was thrilling.

“Friends help one another, you know. And…well, I was hoping you might do me a favor.”

“What?” Sandor blurted, tacking on a quick _my lady_ at the end.

Lyanna’s smile was a burgeoning mess of nerves and excitement. She blurted it out all at once in a heap. “Teach me to use a sword!”

Sandor’s hands dropped to his sides without warning.

_“What?”_

“Help me learn to use a sword,” she repeated, desperation clawing at her words as she began to speak faster and frantically. “We could meet up after your training and you could tell me everything Rodrik taught you! You’d get someone else to spar with! And I’m a fast learner, I swear it. Please? Please, Sandor?” Hands clasped in front of her, she was the ultimate vision of loveliness and temptation, eyes wide with innocent earnestness.

“I…I…” Sandor stammered, mouth agape. “Well…”

“Is that a yes?” Lyanna asked, reaching out and tugging at his sleeves in delight. “Is it? Is it a yes?”

And before he knew what he was doing, Sandor had gone and done it.

“Yes.”

Lyanna let out a shriek of relief mingled with joy, bouncing up and down in a most unladylike fashion. “Oh, thank you, Sandor! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise you won’t regret it! Oh, but we have to be very careful. If my father finds out…”

Sandor’s heart beat erratically in his chest. She didn’t need to tell him. He knew all too well that not even rescuing Rickard Stark’s only daughter would save him if the man found out he was going behind Rickard’s back to teach Lyanna swordfighting.

“Of course,” he croaked, his mouth quite dry. “We…We can start tomorrow.”

She stopped her jumping, but the smile didn’t fade. “Thank you, Sandor. You’re a good friend.” And then she leaned forward wrapped her arms around him in their first embrace, not counting her hysterical hands had searched his body for injuries after the lion attack.

It was a warm feeling, being held in her thin but hardy arms. Sandor barely had the chance to realize what was happening, much less to hug her back, before she’d gone and released him, halfway back to the castle before he could say _you’re welcome._

The warmth of her hug followed him on his route back inside, as the misery over Elinor gradually lessened with every moment spent in the presence of the wolves of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the story's kinda verging on sappy right now... But you must know it's going to be riddled with DRAMA and ANGST soon enough, don't you worry! Just...enjoy the fluff while it lasts...? I guess? :P
> 
> Also, I have a fun question for you all! How would Sandor be addressed right now, in GUN? Like if Brandon wanted to introduce him to someone, would they say, "S'up, man. This is my bro, Sandor Clegane." Or would there be, like, an official title? He's not Lord or anything, so he shouldn't have a title...right? I don't know, I'm having a moment!
> 
> Anyways. Thanks for reading, and for the warm welcome back. Oh! I almost forgot to mention it. It occurred to me some of you may or may not be missing my old work, and for those interested, you can find (most of) my old stuff on ff.net under the same user name. I orphaned a few of them on AO3, as well, so....yeah. Let me know if you wanted something specific I wrote, for whatever.
> 
> Thanks again. Reviews are candy! But like, low-fat candy. Don't worry. It's good for me.
> 
> Ciao for now, not for long  
> MissMallora
> 
> PS, Would you all die of laughter if Rickard actually introduced Sandor like that ^^^ in the next chapter to [insert FUN NEW CHARACTER]? Haha, I am too funny... *awkward laughter abound*


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winterfell welcomes an important guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UGH I HATED WRITING THIS CHAPTER SO MUCH. It's such a nothing chapter. I had to force it out like you wouldn't believe, so please be gentle. I know it isn't stellar. I eventually just had to say "fuck it." But it's leading to bigger things, like a certain Tourney! (And wow, I'm mapping out the chapters and like...yeesh, it is shaping up to be a massive undertaking. I might condense here and there... Every short-cut gets us closer to Sansan after all!) 
> 
> Anways. Despite what I said, I do hope you enjoy the chapter. And shout out to cherubicwendigo for sharing in my feminist rage at ASOIAF/GOT in general. Much appreciated!

“Ha! And take _that!_ And _that!”_

“Rodrik says not to talk while we fight!” Huff-puff, huff-puff. “It…ruins…our… _concentration!”_

“Quiet you, you miserable old toad! We drink to my victory tonight!” Evil cackles.

Huff-puff, huff-puff. “Gods, Lya… When—did you—get—better than—me??”

“It’s all natural talent—ouch!”

“Lyanna?? LYANNA?”

Sandor dropped his wooden stick, the one he’d been using to spar with Lyanna, and leapt forward two steps, crouched halfway down in front of a fuming Lyanna Stark, who was shaking her hand and cursing to herself under her breath. She too had dropped her ‘sword’ in favor of clutching her wrist, though it didn’t seem to be doing any good.

“Oooh!” she muttered over and over. Sandor felt his face pale. Oh gods above. Was she scarred? Was she maimed for life? Would she ever marry? He saw his short-lived life flash before his eyes, saw Rickard Stark sentence him to death, heard Brandon’s deep, booming voice declaring _the man who carries the sentence should swing the sword,_ and oh _gods_ his head went flying from his body and rolled into horse shit and no one wanted to pick it up, somebody please _pick it up!_

“Sandor?”

“What?” He jumped, unprepared for Lyanna’s voice and her unbattered hand reaching out to shake his forearm. “Are—are you ok?”

“What? Yes. I’m fine.” She offered her wrist for Sandor to look at, and he found (with weak-kneed joy) that the wrist wasn’t even bruised. He prayed it didn’t turn colors any time soon, not until they had a good reason for Lyanna to have a purple and blue wrist.

“Sorry,” said Sandor, shuffling away from his sparring partner to go pick up their swords. The weapons in question were more like giant wooden clubs, yet to be carved.

In other words, two long branches with the bark scraped off.

“It’s ok. Guess you were right about talking during fighting, huh?” Lyanna winked at him, though her eyes were over bright and her hand still hugged close to her tummy.

Guilt threatened to eat him alive. “Gods, no. I’m…That was my fault. I shouldn’t have ever hit you.”

But Lyanna shrugged, unconcerned. The momentary shock had evaporated, and in the place of her white hot anger was nothing but casual forgiveness and understanding smiles. “That’s what’s supposed to happen in battle though, isn’t it? I remember when Ned started sparring. Brandon had already been in training for a year, and he just walloped Ned black and blue.” Lyanna started to laugh, but Sandor’s mind had wandered at her words, and at the implication they carried.

_That’s what’s supposed to happen in battle._

His breath felt tight and constrained in his chest. Logically, Sandor knew he wasn’t training for the fun of it, and wielding live steel was just a matter of time. But in his dreams, he was always fighting nameless, faceless men, surrounded by men, led by men. And now suddenly the image of Lyanna bedecked in a warrior’s get-up made his knees tremble, her hands soaked with blood of her own, blood of her enemies, blood of her allies. Her face black and blue, nose cracked and jaw fractured…

This wasn’t what he wanted. He wasn’t doing this so she could…so she would…

“Sandor?”

“What!”

“You keep ignoring me!” Lyanna huffed at him, more than a touch unhappy. Her face was flushed with hot indignation, and her arms folded over her chest to emphasize her dismay. “Is my conversation not good enough for you now that you’re _the chosen one?”_

“What? No! Shut up…” Sandor shucked her words away like they were burning coals. Holding onto that sort of praise was dangerous. _The chosen one._ It was a stupid nickname she had bestowed _so kindly_ onto him two weeks ago, when her father, Lord Stark, had paid one of his rare and illustrious visits to the training yard to watch the new recruits train.

Sandor, among the ranks of nine other boys his age, had sparred in a mock-tourney against one another. It was Sandor who came out victorious, and though some credited his success to his size (which none matched) and others to his status as the Stark childrens’ friend, he knew deep down it was because of his time sparring with Lyanna that he was as good as he’d become so far.

Being several years older than he, Lyanna was big enough to hold her own against his height, although he still had the upper hand in natural strength. Lyanna’s body wasn’t made for combat as his had been bred for, though it was quicker and more agile than he could likely ever dream of becoming. Several days a week for the past two months, Sandor and Lyanna had found time to sneak into the godswood for a bit of one-on-one fighting with their ‘swords,’ otherwise known as two hefty branches Lyanna had found and whittled ( _smacked_ , more like) into more sword-like weapons.

Fighting against the young lady of House Stark proved to be not only immensely fun, as Lyanna would shout absurd insults at Sandor while fighting that made him laugh more often than not, but it was also a great way to stay ahead of the other boys his age in training, much like himself. They were all of them quite scrawny, but sturdy and hard-headed, with each their own dose of honor and pride to get them through a beating by Sandor’s sword.

During the mock tourney last week, Sandor hadn’t been aware that the Lord of House Stark had deigned to come and watch until after the dueling, when he had been declared the winner by a triumphant Rodrik.

“Your champion!” Old Ser Rodrik declared with a booming voice, so boisterous that it shook his beard and his belly, and Sandor saw the resemblance between Rodrik and Martyn for the first time in his life. He was so caught up in the applause of the six maids who had taken a break in their daily duties to watch, and so caught up in the laughter of Ser Rodrik, that he didn’t even notice Rickard Stark until all the boys had hastily bent at the waist, murmuring _milord_ in anxious, eager undertones.

“Well done, Clegane,” said Lord Rickard in his usual somber tone. There was no glint or knowing twinkle in his eyes, but a warmth that seemed and felt genuine to Sandor, as he reached down and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, indeed. I look forward to seeing your training progress.”

“Thank you, my lord,” he mumbled awkwardly. Having spent so much time in the presence of his children, it was hard for Sandor to look the man in the eye and see anything other than Lyanna with dirt on his dress skirts or Benjen with twigs and leaves in his hair. Or Brandon, who Sandor missed sorely, and his bright, wolfish grin.

Rickard gave his arm a squeeze, nodded at Rodrik in approval, and went about his way for the rest of the afternoon. Sandor thought that would be the end of it, and he’d have a nice memory to carry with him for the rest of the week, but it appeared none of the other boys were inclined to let the moment fade quite so peacefully.

None of them were openly scornful, or even outwardly jealous (although Sandor didn’t doubt that they were). Each boy was respectful in their congratulatory remarks, nodding at Sandor once or twice before heading off to the junior barracks for the night. Sandor, as a make-shift ward of the Stark family, slept in the Master’s keep, and though it was very nice and very warm and very welcoming there, watching all the boys head off together that afternoon made him rather wish he could live in the barracks instead. There was comradery. There was boyish joking. There was the sort of bond he’d never have with the Starks, because he would never _be_ a Stark.

There was equality amongst them.

There was also a great many other things, like childish cruelty and ignorance—as proven by the fact none of the boys could look him in the eye to this day. And the gods-awful stench of nine lads around the age of ten didn’t help much either. When it came down to the matter at hand, Sandor knew he would chose the Stark’s home over the barracks any day.

It was times like these that made him rethink he decision.

“You shouldn’t tell a lady to _shut up.”_ Lyanna turned her nose up imperiously, in an alarmingly accurate depiction of the few southron ladies who had come to visit her father’s comparatively humble holdfast. “It isn’t becoming for _the chosen one.”_

“Yeah. You know what else isn’t becoming?” Before he could change his mind, Sandor popped his pointer finger into his mouth, coated it with his spit, pulled it out and promptly poked it into the shell of Lyanna’s ear.

She shrieked loud enough to churn milk into butter. “YOU MENACE!” But she was laughing despite herself, even as she tucked her shoulder to her ear and rubbed earnestly. “Boys are so uncouth.”

“I thought I was _the chosen one.”_

Lyanna reached out with a fist and struck him in the shoulder, hard. “I regret everything,” she muttered under her breath.

“Come on, then.” Sandor braved her anger with his wooden sword in hand once more. “Fight me, you…you old _louse!”_

She squinted at him in disbelief. “An old louse? _An old louse?”_ It seemed she was fighting a broad grin, and failing. “I’ll show _you_ old louse. Hyah!” Her mock-sword crashed against his, and what must have been the most thrilling false-duel commenced. Sandor was sure no one had ever parried, ever thrust, ever battled as fiercely as he and Lyanna did in those moments. Sweat streaked his back and his collar, and when she raised her arms he could see sweat stains of her own making along her sides. They were filthy and smelly and acting entirely inappropriately to both their station and their sex.

It was the most enjoyment either had experienced in a long, long while.

But their fun was cut short—likely for the best—by the sound of Lyanna’s name echoing through the trees in a deep, beckoning call.

She froze at once, eyes wide with fright. “It’s my father!” she hissed, and frantically gestured for Sandor to toss away his stick. He did so at once. “Oh gods! If he catches us, we’re dead!”

“No, if he catches _me_ I’m dead. You’ll get off with a tap on the wrist!”

Lyanna nearly bore her teeth at him in the true image of a wolf bitch. “ _I’ll_ be locked in my chambers until he makes me a match to whoever will have me. Now _be quiet!”_

_“Lyanna!”_ The voice was getting louder. Sandor swore he could hear branches and twigs begin to snap underfoot, not so far away. Impatience was mounting in Rickard’s tone. _“Lyanna!”_

“Seven hells!” Sandor hissed, glancing despairingly at her dress. There was no hiding the beads of sweat in the cloth of her garb, no matter how dark it was. They should have thought to bring an extra change of clothes for afterwards. Sandor had been betting on making it inside the walls without anyone noticing, but thinking back now he realized how lucky he was that they hadn’t been caught so far.

Lyanna met his gaze; she appeared to be thinking the same thing. “Go,” she urged quietly, mostly mouthing the words. “I’ll—I’ll tell him I was playing pretend by myself!”

It wasn’t so far from the truth, and it was a tempting offer to boot, but Sandor couldn’t let her do it all the same. “I was supposed to be _with_ you. If I leave now, it’ll look like I abandoned you in the woods, and Lord Stark doesn’t want you there anyways!” Sandor spat on the ground, scowling. “Seven hells!” he repeated, knowing nothing else to say.

If he stayed, he was damned. If he left, he was dead. They were poor options at best. He began thinking, as fast and as clever as he could be, and trying to come up with a reason good enough.

Rickard’s voice was breathless as he ran towards them, an odd gruff bark of laughter escaping his lips every few seconds. “Lyanna! Where are you??” Sandor had never heard the man sound so…so _boyish_ in his words before.

“We could hide.” Lyanna wasn’t looking at Sandor any longer, but rather staring out in the direction of her father’s approaching voice. Sandor felt desperate, certain her ignoring his words meant she had given up. “Lyanna, we could try and hide until they give up searching, and sneak back in the castle while they’re out looking.” She said nothing, a queer look of doubt and hopefulness mingled on her face. “Lyanna?”

_“Lyanna!”_

It was as though the last piece of a puzzle had fallen into place. Sandor watched with horrified eyes as his friend grabbed the bottom of her skirts, hitched them up just high enough to show her ankles, and sprinted as fast as she could _in the direction of her father._

Sandor watched her leave, feeling as though someone had struck him hard in the belly. “She’s mad,” he muttered to himself in disbelief. Lyanna was laughing ahead of him, absolutely shrieking with joy. “Absolutely mad!”

And then Lyanna spoke, and it was a high-pitched, joyous cry that made Sandor droop in relief.

“Ned!” Through the trees, Sandor saw her jump into a tall man’s arms, a boy not quite two years younger than Brandon. Lyanna dangled from the boy’s frontside, holding onto his neck and giggling all the while. She kept saying his name, “Ned! Ned! You’re back!”

Sandor began to walk forward cautiously. It was almost uncanny, the striking resemblance this boy shared with Brandon and Benjen. No one could ever say the four Stark children weren’t wolves through and through. The boy was tall and built well, his dark hair long enough to be held back with a dark ribbon and a face that, even with the happiness over discovering Lyanna at last, was structurally somber, almost sullen.

It felt like ages had passed with Lyanna swinging gaily in her brother’s embrace, before Sandor watched Ned set her gently on her feet once more.

“Why didn’t you write and tell us?” she asked, her arms wound about his waist, holding him dearly. Sandor brushed aside the stab of envy, and strained to hear them speak.

“I know, I’m sorry. It was a very quick decision. I didn’t know Brandon had gone to Riverrun, else I would have held off and come back with him. But in all truth…Father actually _asked_ me to come home within the next month. He never asks me to come home, you know him. And I worried about Benjen handling a sword and being compared to Brandon and, well…” Ned inhaled, and released it in a loud breath of air. “I missed you, little sister.”

“I missed you as well, brother.” Lyanna’s eyes were dewy and bright, gleaming at him in the cold sunlight. The siblings held onto each other for a moment longer, when Ned suddenly frowned, looked down at his sister with clear eyes and said,

“Why are you covered in mud?”

* * *

 

Eddard Stark—for it was the elusive third brother, as Sandor had surmised—had agreed to help him and Lyanna escape her father’s notice and reach the keep undetected, so that they might each wash up and change. But his generosity came at a price.

“I have a surprise for you, back at the keep.” Ned smoothed a stray curl from Lyanna’s forehead. “It would please me greatly if you would be open-minded about receiving it.” Not even her brother’s unsubtle attempt at bribery could dissuade her look of joy.

“Anything!” she agreed. “Oh, but only if Sandor might see it as well.”

“I suspect he will. It isn’t the sort of surprise to remain hidden.” Eddard Stark had accepted Sandor’s formal greeting, despite his doubts over the influence he might have on Lyanna. “It’s fortunate that I know my sister well,” Ned had said to them, with a heavy sigh for Lyanna’s unkempt state, “for I know now, no matter who she was out running with, she would still come home up to her knees in mud either way.”

“He knows me so well,” Lyanna, turning in Ned’s arms, had said breathlessly, eyes twinkling merrily.

And so the three of them headed back to Winterfell’s halls, each going their own way at the appropriate time. Ned agreed to draw the search out a little longer, while Lyanna and Sandor slipped in at the opportune moment. It wasn’t as challenging as one might have thought;

“Go wash and dress yourself for supper,” Lyanna ordered, shoving at him with one hand and grinning like a mad fool. Her other hand worked at the stripe of mud crusted over her left cheek, a remnant of their time in the woods. “Meet me outside the hall?”

He agreed to her orders—not without the proper amount of grumbling, so she wouldn’t think she could boss him around so easily (even though she certainly could)—and after changing into a clean tunic, he began carefully scrubbing his face, splashing warm water over his scars. They didn’t hurt so much anymore, not so much as it simply felt…numb. His fingertips ghosted over the craggy cheek where a tooth was visible through the open wound, and his face twisted his scars with his sharp pang of misery. The Maester had said he could help soften the skin and stop the pus, but there was little to be done for scar tissue and burn marks as deep as his own. He would look like this…forever.

After all but wrenching himself away from the miserable sight of his face in the looking glass, Sandor slipped on his boots and combed his hair over the side of his face. All the maids and guards he passed on his way down the stairs seemed in a hurry, running to and fro with new linens, somebody’s trunk, hot water, tallow and rose oil.

He found Lyanna downstairs as per instructed, wearing one of her finer gowns and an elegant braid to keep her hair off her neck. She was similarly distracted by all the commotion, frowning at the chaos of men and women carrying armfuls of fresh meat down to the kitchens.

“What do you suppose it is?” asked Sandor, when the pair were alone in the hall save for the maids bustling about with trays of food. They were standing side by side outside of the dining hall, shoulders barely brushing one another’s.

“Whatever it is, it must be important.” Lyanna wrinkled her nose at all the silver platters, twisting out of the way of an incoming tray of warm bread rolls. “I haven’t seen so much food at one time in years. And the good silverware! What’s father thinking?”

“He must be happy to see your brother again.” It sounded logical, but Lyanna only snorted derisively.

“Trust me. It’s _not_ for Ned. Not truly, although I’m sure he’ll say it is.”

Sandor didn’t understand why Lyanna sounded as though she thought her father didn’t care about Ned’s return home, nor why she thought he would lie about the reasoning behind the feast.

With a grudging sigh, Lyanna muttered under her breath, “My father loves us, I know that. But he’d never bother with such a fuss for one of his own children coming home. He’s trying to _impress,_ and I want to know why.”

“Maybe your lord brother brought a guest.”

She shrugged uncaringly, before actually considering Sandor’s words. “Might be. Could be. But who could Ned…” Lyanna’s voice faded away, her eyes widened fractionally. “Oh….Oh no.”

“Lyanna?” Sandor scowled to himself. He was really getting tired of feeling on the outside with her. “Lyanna, what is it?”

But then the doors swung open, the hall was revealed in all its northern splendour. Rows of sturdy wooden tables topped with silver platters and wine and water proffered at the corner of each place setting. The warmth thrown from two fires crackling at either side of the hall, and the high beams which did reach long and far overhead, stretched from end to end. And there, at the head table with a bountiful feast laid out before them, stood Ned and Lord Stark and a boy Ned’s age, standing in fine-looking black and gold.

Ned was watching quietly, looking infinitely pleased and worried altogether, while Lord Stark’s face was as cool and collected as ever, giving away nothing. The boy—hardly a boy, with a beard thicker than Brandon’s and arms the size of small, firm melons—stood on Lord Stark’s other side, and it was he who was grinning broadly at Lyanna, pleased as a peach to see her. As they approached, Lyanna leading the way, he began eyeing her in a way that made Sandor bristle with hot indignation and wish for Brandon to come back very, _very_ soon.

Benjen was already seated, he saw from the corner of his eye, although the youngest wolf pup moved slowly to his feet as he took in his sister’s reaction, checking his father’s face nervously.

Sandor peered at Lyanna’s face, a careful distance away from her, off to the side and out of the way as courtesy dictated. It would take one who knew her well to see past the icy exterior her face presented, but as soon as Sandor caught the clench of her jaw, his heart sank low between his toes. Gaze fixed, face blank, on baited breath…

She was utterly, indescribably horrified.

“Lyanna?” Lord Stark, in full northern regalia, stood at the head table, watching her with warning eyes. “Is that any way to greet your brother?”

Sandor could hear Lyanna’s breath, slow and uneven, from where she stood just in front of himself. After a long pause in which the lightness and laughter of the room seemed to wither and wilt, Lyanna began to walk.

“Welcome home, brother.” She stood before Eddard, and reached up to press a feather-light kiss to his bearded cheek. “Father,” she curtsied before Lord Stark, eyes lain low. And then she stopped in front of the man with wild black hair, and a roguish grin. For him, she had no warm greeting.

“Sister. You will remember Lord Baratheon from before.”

Lyanna forced a smile at Ned’s words. “Of course. He is most unforgettable.” She swept into a deep curtsey, plucking the sides of her skirt up in either hand, rising with equal grace. “Lord Baratheon. It is a pleasure hosting you in our home once more.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Lyanna.” He reached out and kissed her hand, though Sandor saw his eyes looking up at her from his bow the whole time. He shifted uncomfortably. It was as though he could feel Lyanna’s skin shiver from across the hall.

“And this is Sandor of House Clegane, ward of Winterfell.” Lord Stark gestured him forth, and he obeyed with a stiff back. He hadn’t met a Lord before, none but Lord Stark himself. There was something natural about bowing and scraping to Rickard Stark. It was plain in his face and movements that the man was a leader, that he was a protector and—above all else—worthy of his titles. But standing in front of Robert Baratheon, whose gaze was morbidly affixed on Sandor’s scars, he found no such indication of his natural capabilities as a leader, nor a protector, and certainly not any worth.

Still he bowed as was expected, keeping a cautious distance from Lord Baratheon, and greeted him quietly.

Lord Baratheon nodded to him in kind, though his gaze remained rather plainly transfixed by the sight of his grotesque scars, unabashedly studying the burns with fascination and horror. Sandor forced himself to keep his eyes on Lord Baratheon, drawing courage from the tenseness in Lyanna’s spine at the blatant disrespect shown. He wouldn’t be a coward. He would _not_ look away out of shame. He would _not._

Lord Baratheon coughed, a grunting, grumbling noise that was clearly meant to make the company forget his rudeness, and clapped his hands together brusquely.

“Shall we, then? I’m going to start panting like a real wolf with the smell of such a feast!”

And just like that, Sandor was cast aside.

Lord Stark took his seat at the center of the table as per customary, and Eddard took the seat on his right. Lord Baratheon sat himself on Rickard’s left, and after a curt order from Lord Stark— _be seated with our guest, daughter—_ Lyanna took the seat next to Robert’s.

Sandor sat on the other side of Benjen, who was incidentally placed on Ned’s right. His was the last chair, as far from Lyanna as he could possibly be.

Beside him, Benjen sighed very quietly. “Brandon will be furious,” he mumbled out of the corner of his mouth, rather to himself. Sandor looked up from his dinner plate at him, interest piqued.

“What?”

But the boy just shook his head and resumed eating. It was strange seeing the wiry boy swallow so much food; he was entirely skin and bones despite his hearty appetite, and Sandor couldn’t fathom why that was. It was like he was born to two separate parents, for Brandon and Ned were each so muscular and fearsomely built. But then, he supposed neither man was born fit as a stallion. And still, it was hard imagining them once as scrawny as Benjen was.

The meal Lord Stark had served to them was game meat, roasted and seasoned superbly. It was far superior to the usual meal they took at dinner, and it was no longer a guess to Sandor as to why that was. Throughout the dinner, Lord Stark’s attention rarely strayed from anything not pertaining to Lord Baratheon and his needs. Wine, water, cloth to clean his face—it was all there on Robert’s beck and call. And next to him, poor Lyanna sat with a quietly worried expression on her face, one that only escalated with each display of Robert’s loudness, his theatrical displays, and his poor eating manners. Meat and grease clung to his black beard, and Sandor swore he saw bits of spittle fly out when he let loose his jovial laugh.

If Robert Baratheon was aware at all of Lyanna’s growing dismay, he did a tremendous job of hiding it. Sandor watched as he ate with the Stark family, quite content gesturing emphatically through the tale of how he and Ned raced each other on their traverse from the Eyrie to Winterfell.

“Your son rides his horse like a sodding jouster, the bastard!” Robert laughed uproariously, and Lord Stark made a show of smiling as much as his severe nature would allow.

“You should see how well Lyanna rides, if Eddard impresses you.”

Robert’s dark eyes turned toward the girl in question, a soft gleam of curiosity and desire blossoming there. “Aye? Perhaps I should.” Lyanna’s body looked as stiff as bricks.

“Why don’t we all go out riding tomorrow?” asked Eddard quietly, leaning forward to look across his father at Robert, inadvertently hiding Lyanna from his view. “It’s said the snow will hold off a while yet.”

“Yes, well. Winter is coming. Better wear your heavy furs tomorrow, Lyanna.” Lord Rickard glanced at her, a sharp frown on his face. Lyanna said nothing in reply, turning to Robert instead.

“I look forward to showing you my home, Lord Baratheon.” Lyanna took a long drink of her cup, likely wine. Sandor, for the first time, not only knew she was a Lady, but saw it as well. Her graces, her perfected courtesies. There was no trace of discomfort in her features to the untrained eye.

In fact, her displeasure was so well hidden, it prompted Robert to lean a touch closer, to deepen his voice with a throaty hum in his words. “As I look forward to showing you my home, soon I hope.”

Everyone froze. Lyanna and her masked face peered down the table to her father, who chewed slowly on his food, while Ned smothered a groan, lowering his chin to his chest in resignation.

As for Robert Baratheon himself, the lordly stag sat back and smiled wide enough to split his face in two, both victorious and voracious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned's baaaaaack! And he's brought a friend! What do you think of Robert entering the story? I'm kinda bummed that I have to write him so despicably....I have a guilty soft spot for the guy (flawed, flawed, flawed as he is...)
> 
> Also, wow, Rickard. You are such a difficult little fucker to write... Should I play him off as more stern and silent than I have been? I FEEL LOST AND INSECURE. HEEEEELP.
> 
> Btw, I should have said this sooner, but I didn't want to risk turning off any hardcore fans: I'm not referring to the books as I write. I'll look something up if I have to, in order to double-check if need be, but if you get turned off by blips in story accuracy, consider this your fair warning. Author is taking liberties where she pleases, be it in characters, plot or story progression! Be aware! :)
> 
> Thanks for reading. I hope you're all doing well and that the future looks good. 
> 
> Ciao for now,  
> Miss Mallora
> 
> PS, If I started taking requests for Sansan oneshots/drabbles, would y'all be interested? They wouldn't be long (or, ugh, I'm saying this now. Knowing me, I'll turn them into three-part series). Anyways. I really miss writing oneshots! Tell me your WILDEST sansan fantasies!
> 
> ....um... 
> 
> Well, maybe like, your second-wildest.... Tell me you MODERATELY WILD sansan fantasies!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More visitors come north, to celebrate a cause Lyanna Stark would rather not have happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay. But it's a longer chapter by my standards, so yay for that!
> 
> Enjoy! *makes smoochie face*
> 
> PS. SO many subtle digs at misogyny. So many.

The weeks following Lord Baratheon’s arrival seemed to stretch on for several winters. It certainly felt that way to Sandor, whose interactions with Lyanna had been cut down dramatically. Between Brandon’s absence and greedy Robert keeping Lyanna—and Benjen, some days—preoccupied with whatever outing he’d requested that day, Sandor found himself to be without any Stark companions most days, exercising his frustration in the training yard under Rodrik’s careful eye.

The time after dinner was easily the best, and what he waited for most days. It was shortly after which that Lyanna would make a getaway to the godswood, where not even Robert Baratheon could fake an interest in venturing. Sandor knew, having heard such from the Stark children, that the weirwood trees had a habit of unsettling guests, those from the south who rarely ventured into such holy places. And though the rowdy lord could hardly be called a coward, it was plain to all that even he felt discomfited amongst the old gods.

So Sandor would meet Lyanna instead, before the carved faces of the gods, and spend as much as an hour talking to her, risking the wrath of her father should he find out about their nightly adventures. Some nights they spoke on the faith of the north, the old gods. Some nights, they barely spoke at all, sitting quietly in each other’s presence. And some nights, they spoke on the land itself. Lyanna, though she was often excluded from her brothers’ lessons on politics, had developed her own opinions on the ins and outs of the North. It seemed that being kept away from so much bias had given her the capabilities to see conflicts in ways her father and brothers oftentimes couldn’t fathom. Her answers and insights weren’t always accurate, some wildly missing the mark, but they were always fascinating to hear. Sandor had never met a girl who gave her opinion so freely, nor had he met someone with an opinion so singular from the rest.

Some nights they called on old ghosts and spoke of the dead. It was a fortnight since Robert’s arrival when Sandor learned of the dead who haunted Lyanna Stark. Particularly her mother, Lyarra, whose image she could recall nothing but dark, smooth hair. Fine as silk.

“My father loved her very fiercely,” she murmured to herself, staring up at the tree with almost curious eyes, as though she expected the weeping faces to chime in. “I think, even if she had not given him a single child before she died, he still would never have remarried. Perhaps claimed some extended relation as his heir…”

Sandor’s own ghosts were dwindling as the years had carried on. He could no longer remember the face of his father, and only had the vaguest memory of Gregor. In fact, it wasn’t so much a true memory as it was a nightmare of a giant boy with two hands made of living fire, the flames crackling and hissing at his fingertips. Then again, perhaps the night terror and the reality were not so separate from one another.

“Do you ever miss Clegane Keep? Your mother and father?”

He considered it only briefly. “I miss it no more than you could. Can’t miss something you don’t remember.”

“And your parents?” She looked at him carefully, kneeling before the tree.

Sandor didn’t say anything, merely shook his head. For by then, he had no memory of them either.

His grandfather, he _did_ miss, as much as it was possible to miss a man he’d last seen nearly three years past when he was but seven years old. Mikken had told the story of how Sandor came to live with him many times, under Sandor’s persistence whenever he visited, and told him how the Lord of Winterfell had taken pity on a dying man’s wish. He had even once asked Lord Stark himself about it, the man’s eyes cold but understanding as well. Lord Stark had relayed a concise, informed series of events, taking care to omit no details that served as great importance. Sandor then told Lyanna the story several times for his benefit as much as for her own, so that he would remember the words more than he was able to remember the event itself. She offered what she could to the tale, in her support.

“You were so tiny. And soaked to the bone, you southron folk and your fancy, impractical clothes,” she teased him gently, then added solemnly, “You had the saddest face I’d ever seen on a little boy.”

Sandor thought himself significantly less sad nowadays. Though he was unhappy to see so little of his friends now that Lord Baratheon had come to visit—for even Benjen had duties to see to in regards to the loud and proud lord—Sandor knew he wouldn’t have had the time to spar with Lyanna much anymore anyways. He was deep in the throes of his training by now, as Ser Rodrik had declared him skilled enough to spar with the older boys before lunch. It went beyond a matter of modesty or pride; by now, Sandor’s skill with a sword undoubtedly went beyond that of the other boys’ his age.

He was rewarded for his progression by the introduction of new lessons to his weekly routine. For now he had started learning to ride.

It was perhaps unusual, to say the least, seeing a boy who was not born either to a farm nor to a highborn family, learning horsemanship on the coin of another House, but Brandon had apparently managed to convince his father through letters.

He had written one for Sandor too, even knowing Sandor’s skill with pen and parchment was not one he could boast of.

 _“Sandor,”_ it started, and continued with all the robust personality of the writer himself.

                _Riverrun is proving to be a very exciting place, although I doubt my Lord Father will be too pleased to hear of my latest battle. It was against a rather green boy by the name of Petyr Baelish, for the hand of my betrothed, if you can imagine that. You’ll not have heard his family’s name before. Lady Catelyn tells me it is not a proud House, not even among the minor Houses. Aside from the fight, or perhaps because of the fight—which was little more than a spar in all truth—I’ve enjoyed my time here, a great deal more than I thought I would. Lady Catelyn is kind and gentle, though we get little chance to speak alone. She is a fair beauty, besides._

_But I didn’t mean to write to you about my adventures here though. Rather, I was writing to convey my excitement on your own upcoming adventures! I have convinced my Lord Father that our House would benefit greatly should you be taught to seat a horse. Properly, I mean. Not the way the other green boys here straddle their mounts like a horse is but a sack of hay. You’re a northern man now, Sandor. You needs learn to ride like one, for your own stallion one day. Let it be my nameday gift to you. All Starks are formidable riders, and so too shall you be._

_I will return home soon, I hope. Much as I have enjoyed my stay, I miss the air of the north, as well as any southron man might miss the sweltering heat of their sun. I cannot decide whether I wish to return while Ned is home, or wait until that bloody arrogant stag has left._

_Your friend,_

_Brandon_

_P.S. Please burn this note after reading it. It wouldn’t do for unwelcome eyes to stumble upon it._

Sandor had done as he asked, only after reading it so many times the ink had begun to smudge under his fingertips. He had watched the letter curl and wither in the flames, swallowed whole by the orange glow of his hearth, before getting ready for a day of riding lessons.

Hullen, the newly appointed master of horses, called Sandor a natural rider, though he struggled at the time with learning how to post through the gait of a trot. The horse he trained on most frequently went by the name of Maiden (a terribly unimaginative name, all things considered) and belonged to none other than the lady of the land herself.

Lyanna had given her blessing for Sandor to borrow her bright, chipper mare so that he could master riding, provided he both return her mare in one piece and, after getting a mount of his own, race her as often as she pleased. With a laugh, Sandor had agreed, although from the few times he’d seen her riding, he wasn’t so sure that was a good idea on his part.

Robert Baratheon had gotten one thing right after all. The Starks knew how to ride a horse, and Lyanna had mastered the art long ago, it seemed. Almost as though she were part-horse herself. Sandor had watched Lyanna ride away from the stables several times now, sometimes with a formal party in tow, sometimes not. Lord Baratheon seemed determined to accompany her on as many trips as he could manage (although Sandor had heard of the man making a few trips of his own into Winter Town on rare occasion, sometimes daring to go into the shabby inn that not-so-secretly doubled as a brothel most nights). When Lyanna was not in her lessons, he was her shadow. Or rather, he forced her to be his.

Sandor hated watching them together, Lyanna walking by his side with her arm tucked into his gallantly-proffered elbow, often smiling and laughing elegantly at whatever crude tale Robert Baratheon decided to tell next. He didn’t know how she could bear it, to put up with his disrespectful humor, his loud abrasiveness, his arrogant demeanor. Sandor had only spoken with the lord a handful of times since introduction, but each time ended with Sandor feeling more and more displeased at the thought of Robert extending his stay _yet again._

The man should have left by now. Everyone knew so. Benjen had confessed to him the other day that even Ned was starting to grow impatient, ready to return to the road and either travel to the Stormlands or back to the Eyrie. It appeared that even Ned was unsure of his friend’s hesitation, his blatant refusal to leave the keep as courtesy dictated. Gods above, even _Sandor_ knew the time had come and past for when a guest comes unannounced.

Whatever it was that kept Robert in the walls of Sandor’s home, the boy decided early on that he hoped Robert tired of it soon. He and Benjen spoke a little on it when they saw one another, sometimes when Benjen came down to train with the sword with the other boys. Trying to reason through Robert’s desperate desire to remain in Winterfell was no challenge; the man had made it plain that he meant to marry Lyanna Stark, come all the seven hells and high water.

Lyanna never spoke on the matter without being prompted, and Sandor had little and less desire to ask on the Lord of the Stormlands. Of what she said, however, he was none too impressed. “He’s not so terrible,” she began one night whilst visiting the godswood with him, in the first week of Robert’s visit. “He’s loud and blunt, perhaps. And I don’t care for his japes. But…he is handsome. And he doesn’t seem the sort to try and stop me from riding. Might be he’ll even let me continue swordfighting, for true….” But her chipper tone sounded awfully strained.

“If his volume and his humor are the worst things I have to complain about, then I suppose I should be grateful,” Lyanna mumbled to herself, rather sourly. She slumped in her seat, resting atop a fallen log. “There are far more unpleasant things a man can bring to his marriage bed, after all.”

Sandor didn’t say anything at times like that, for he knew there was nothing comforting to be said. Lyanna had managed to stall her father’s decision for weeks, but time was running out, and Brandon—for whatever reason—had been delayed. Ned and Benjen were no help in the matter, Ben for his age, and Ned for his impartiality to the situation. Perhaps impartiality was too bland a word. _Torn_ was more accurate.

Lyanna had tried, repeatedly, to convince Ned to speak out against the encroaching betrothal, but her brother had refused to lie on her behalf. “He’s done nothing wrong, Lyanna,” he would say, and Sandor would hear it from Lyanna’s lips hours later, mockery and frustration laden equally in her tone.

“Why must a man do something wrong in order to spare me wedding him? Should it not be enough that I do not like him at all?” She huffed loudly, folded her arms, and sulked. Sandor, who had been kneeling before a weirwood tree, listening to his friend ranting in the background, finally spoke up, picking his words with care.

“What reason does your Lord Father have for wedding you to a southron lordling anyways?”

She wrinkled her nose in dismay. “He says it will form ties from us to the south. But I don’t care for the south, and neither does the rest of our people!”

Sandor privately suspected that in itself was the point of trying to _make_ ties, but he wisely kept such observations to himself.

“What if you made another suggestion in Lord Baratheon’s stead? Another lord you could wed?”

Lyanna looked as though he had asked her to dance circles in the great hall, naked as her nameday. “But I don’t wish to marry at all!”

And for that, Sandor had no solution. There was no solution. Both of them knew too well that Lyanna needed to wed, and quite soon. She’d just celebrated her fifteenth nameday. In a few short years, she would be considered a spinster, written off as unmarriable. It sounded like an answer to their problems, but Sandor suspected (and he thought Lyanna might suspect as well) that her father, Rickard Stark, was more likely to throw her over his shoulder and _march_ her into the godswood, before he let her throw away her prospects without a second of remorse.

“I won’t do it.” Lyanna’s declaration was met with doubtful silence, as Sandor turned his gaze reluctantly unto the ground. If he thought his lack of protest would appease her, he was sorely mistaken. “I won’t!” she repeated, fiercer than before. “I won’t be forced into a loveless marriage. To be a brood mare for a hale and healthy lord, and watch as he drinks and whores himself into thrice his size. _I won’t do it!”_

She stomped off then, leaving Sandor alone in the woods with nothing but the trees, and the sound of her voice echoing in the night.

_I won’t do it! I won’t do it! I won’t do it!_

* * *

 

“May the old gods favor your union, Lady Lyanna,” one northerner greeted, while another one scraped. Countless men and women—lords and ladies of the north—had gathered in Winterfell’s halls to toast the betrothal of Lyanna Stark and Robert Baratheon, a strong match if there ever was one. No northern man favored the south so much, but Lord Baratheon was well-liked, for his humor if nothing else. It was bawdy and sharp, and when he roared with laughter, he had a habit of dragging smiles from his fellow man as well. Besides all that, it was no secret that the match would bring strength into the north.

So as far as marriages went, Lyanna’s approaching nuptials were neither greatly celebrated, nor wholly condemned, Sandor supposed. The people seemed mostly happy to see their lady ready to be betrothed, at the tender age of fifteen.

 _If only they took the time to really look at her,_ Sandor thought with a poorly-hidden scowl. _They might not greet her so stupidly then._

For all Lyanna’s efforts to act grateful and welcoming as a bride-to-be, Sandor could read her as easily as he might read his own name. Her brow took on a pinched quality every so often, while her mouth fought between an ebullient smile and a twisted grimace at all times. And when her arm was linked through Robert Baratheon’s, she seemed so stiff that it looked as though she wished to make herself into a statue from sheer determination.

Sandor took little interest in the visitors of Winterfell’s halls, but for the fact it interrupted his practicing a great deal. Lord Stark wanted to make a good impression to his bannermen, and so he had Rodrik organize numerous spars and trials to exercise the boys in the yard throughout the day. Sandor didn’t mind the fighting, but it was getting rather dull in all truth. Not the fighting—he excelled by the day—but the waiting, standing on the sidelines to watch one of his comrades fight another. He hated the breaks, the pause in between. Normally, there would be no pause. The lads could pair off and rotate partners as frequently as they pleased, but because of the celebratory feast, Sandor was forced to stop and stare and help make a spectacle of the fighting.

Many of the guests were small groups of northerners, consisting of a Lord, a Lady and their few guards. They all looked the same to Sandor from the distance he was allowed to greet them, being barely able to call himself a ward. He preferred to watch Lyanna with bizarre fascination as she moved through the motions of welcoming her guests, smiling prettily and curtseying, exchanging smiles and polite inquiries where suitable. For in all truth, it was unnerving to see her act so ladylike _._ So sophisticated. He had never thought of her high station with great consideration—not truly, not seriously—but there was no denying it with her arm wrapped lightly over Robert’s elbow, her finely embroidered gown barely brushing the floor, her chin held high and proud. She looked like a woman. No, she looked like a _lady._

He thought back to the times he had spent with Ben and Brandon and Lyanna in the shelter of the godswood, training under Brandon’s encouragement and Lyanna’s envy, picking up bits and pieces on the Houses of Westeros from Benjen’s lessons, playing whatever game the Stark children had come up with last. And he remembered Lyanna’s words, her warning of the future to come for them. The inevitability of separation was crushing him by the day now. Lyanna would be wed to a Lord in the South, of all places. Benjen was quietly skirting away from all conversation about castellans and Maesters and whichever other jobs Brandon suggested. And Brandon himself was miles away, headed home after starting the first of many duties he would have as Lord of Winterfell one day, duties which could carry him away on far journeys not so infrequently.

 _We will be parted from one another, to never see each other again._ Sandor wondered if their thoughts were as grim as his own. He suspected Lyanna’s was, for however little he saw of her. Her betrothed was unwilling to let her out of his sight for too long, under the reasoning that soon he would have to travel homewards once more and be parted from her for many months yet.

True to form, Robert was with her now, each dressed in their finest clothes, standing in the middle of the feast Lord Stark had thrown to celebrate their encroaching union. They were standing with Ned, who seemed to always have one concerned eye on Robert’s wine goblet, the other on Lyanna’s miserable smile. He wasn’t sure what to make of the second son just yet, but of what Sandor had seen, he wasn’t altogether impressed. Brandon would have never stood for such a match, were he here. Lyanna confessed to Sandor one night under the stars that her eldest brother had a strong dislike for Robert (a wonder, actually, since they were quite similar in some ways), and that he would have fought for her rights in this matter. Alas, there was little and less to be done when he was so far from Winterfell.

Privately, Sandor wondered if Rickard Stark hadn’t arranged that intentionally.

“May your marriage be blessed with many fine, strong sons, milord,” another northern lord ducked his head humbly to Robert’s station, echoing the words Lyanna had likely heard for a week straight now. Every time someone prayed for sons, her face would twitch slightly, a flinch she couldn’t fend off entirely, making Sandor smile despite the situation. He doubted Lyanna wanted any children right now, regardless of their parentage, but he knew well enough that she would feel insulted at the blatant preference for lads over lasses.

Sandor wandered away from the couple, in the direction of the other boys who trained in the yard. They stood not far off from the knights of Winterfell, Ser Rodrik and Ser Martyn among them. And with the brothers, their wives and children. He was surprised to see Martyn’s lady wife out with her own brood, now short one due to a fast-burning fever. He’d been forbidden from calling on the house to see about Elinor’s health, but Martyn had assured him repeatedly that little Elinor was well and being kept with the healthier two boys. Little Jory had only scarcely pulled through, his older brother dying not a full day after catching the sickness.

Martyn’s promises appeared to be well-founded, for there was Elinor herself, playing in Lady Jyna’s skirts. Her black hair had been left mostly untouched, wild black curls sat in a heap on her head, and he could hear her giggling as she toddled about Lady Cassel’s legs, playing peek-a-boo with her adopted brother, Jory. She had just celebrated her third nameday, and was quite avidly learning how to talk (though most of it was nonsense for the time being).

The men were laughing at some bawdy joke Martyn told—Mikken was among them, and he nodded at Sandor when he approached them, smiling faintly at his former pupil—each man held a sizeable mug in their hand, either just topped with ale or on its way to being emptied very quick.

“Hello, young Sandor,” Lady Jyna greeted him kindly. She’d lost some weight since he last visited, but it didn’t help make her look younger or sweeter. Her face seemed more hollow, her smiles dimmer. Losing her son had taken something out of her, and he couldn’t help thinking that she had been so much more radiant back when she’d been much larger and had four living sons.

Still, her smile was as kind as ever it was, and any dullness there was easily forgiven.

“Good evening, Lady Cassel.” He bowed a bit stiffly. Ser Rodrik was no instructor on etiquette, after all. He had only what Benjen and Brandon had deemed fit to tell him, on the rare occasions they spoke of politics and courtly manners (of which neither were fond of, not nearly as much as southron lordlings seemed).

“Elinor, sweet girl, look who it is!” Jyna coaxed the bumbling child out with cooed words and a rather firm tug from where she’d rooted under her “mother’s” dress. He’d have smiled if he weren’t so nervous, so petrified. Coming to say hello seemed such a good idea from across the hall, but now Sandor worried if it wasn’t too much of a new thing here in Winterfell.

He held his breath for a moment, staring at his little sister as she scrunched her face up at him, puzzling him out silently. And he _worried,_ terrified she wouldn’t remember him as she hadn’t years ago, when suddenly—

“Sandor!”

Her chubby arms and legs propelled right into him, nearly knocking him off his feet. With a laugh, he righted the pair of them, patting her warm curls with a careful hand. Jyna smiled at them once, and turned back to the conversation with her husband and his brother and his brother’s second wife.

“Hi, Elinor.” Sandor fought the awkwardness away, reminding himself that this was _his_ sister. Three years old, and perfectly content to have an entire conversation by herself if need be. “Have you been good for Lord Cassel and his lady wife?”

She clapped her hands over her mouth and giggled loudly, hiding two rows of tiny, crooked baby teeth, bits of corn and roast pig caught between them.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he mumbled, happy in spite of her inability to articulate feelings just yet.

Sandor spent most of the night with his sister and her second family, fighting waves of jealousy whenever one of the Cassel boys came to play with Elinor. The oldest, Jory and Young Marty, were quiet. Likely they remembered their lost brother well enough, but Elinor and her youngest brother, Ayden, seemed oblivious to the rest of the family’s sorrow, cheerfully making up games and singing songs and twirling about on the edge of the floor set aside for dancing without a care in the world.

Sandor decided he was too old for twirling about any more, not even for Elinor’s sake, and felt thoroughly put-out when Mikken _and_ Rodrik told him he wasn’t old enough for wine, or even ale yet.

“If I catch you sneaking any, boy, I’ll box your ears. So help me, _gods,”_ Mikken threatened. Sandor took the warning to heart, enough to persuade him not to try. (For now.)

It was late in the evening before Lyanna and Benjen found him, both flushed and breathless. Neither seemed to be enjoying themselves much. Lyanna’s hair was damp with sweat from all her dancing with either Robert or some other lord requesting the privilege of her hand for a song. As for Ben, the boy looked so thoroughly miserable, Sandor found himself fervently glad of his lower station in one rare occasion.

“They just keep coming, from out of nowhere!” Benjen huffed and puffed, glancing frantically around the room, as though fearing any more ladies might pop out at him and bat their eyelashes hopefully at him.

“Gods, I need a drink. Ale, wine, water. I don’t care!” Lyanna scoured the room on her tip-toes, fanning herself with one hand, holding Benjen’s arm with the other. “Oh!” She plucked up a cup of water that had appeared almost out of nowhere, thanking the maid who had brought it to her so quickly.

Draining her cup in one go, Lyanna dropped her arm back down with a loud sigh. “Ah, that was what I needed.” She looked around the room, smiling a bit to herself at nothing in particular. “I didn’t see you dancing, Sandor.”

“What?”

Both Lyanna and Benjen turned to him expectantly now, eyebrows raised importantly. “Dancing! I didn’t see you twirling any of the young ladies around,” Lyanna needled him amicably.

“No,” he agreed, “I haven’t.”

The two Starks looked surprised, and a bit jealous of his freedoms. “Well, why not? You’re the son of a lord! You should be dancing too!”

“Yes,” Lyanna agreed with her brother. “Why do you not dance with them?”

Sandor said the first thing which popped into his mind. “I don’t know how.” It was truthful, at least, although a bit embarrassing.

“Oh.” Benjen and Lyanna shared a sheepish look, like they felt guilty he hadn’t been taught. “Well, it isn’t _hard_.”

“Indeed, it isn’t at all!” Lyanna reached out and gave his arm a squeeze of encouragement. “You should try! The steps for this one aren’t difficult.”

“Most of the boys haven’t been formally educated how, either,” added Benjen under his breath, “and the ones that have can’t do it perfect neither.”

“Oh come on,” Lyanna urged, when she saw he wasn’t convinced. “It’ll be fun, I promise! Here, I’ll dance the first few with you to get you started.” And before he could say no—because he never _could_ say no to Lyanna Stark—she had taken him by the hand and pulled him hastily out into the crowd of dancers, most of them taller than the pair of them. At least Sandor was spectacularly tall for his age, and so he could look his partner in the eye.

Lyanna swirled on the spot when she’d decided they had reached their destination, put one hand in his and the other perched on his shoulder, and she began mouthing silent numbers to him, whispering cues to move his feet accordingly. And Sandor resigned himself to being humiliated in front of all his comrades.

But the first dance didn’t go so poorly. Neither did the second. Lyanna’s teaching wasn’t extremely proficient, but it kept him from falling over or bumping into other dancers at least. She only smiled when he made a mistake (which was quite often) and continued her instructions as though they hadn’t stopped moving. Around the hall they went, Sandor turning her about with inexperienced arms, slowly—very slowly—starting to _enjoy_ himself. Even Lyanna giggled a few times, when he stepped on her foot hard enough to send her careening into a sworn shield, or when he spun around too slow and she accidentally struck him in the jaw with a stray arm, catching him rather unaware.

It was several songs in before he realized they were being watched, not by her father, who had watched her closely all night, or even Robert Baratheon, well on his way to being completely and utterly drunk by the end of the feast, but by the smallfolk who had garnered invitations by working in Winterfell. The boys Sandor sparred with were staring at him with gaping mouths, unable to hide their surprise, and a few daughters close to his age had huddled together and begun pointing to him unsubtly, whispering amongst themselves in what felt like surprise and a bit of intrigue.

“They’re jealous,” he murmured to Lyanna, meaning the other boys watching. She barely glanced over at his words, smiling to herself.

“Of course they are. They’ve never _seen_ such fine dancing,” she boasted, and though he knew she was teasing in kind, somehow her words made him feel bolder and better.

The dancing and music came to a halt when there was a commotion at the doors, and one of the older servants came forward to announce the arrival of four late guests. He coughed, clearing his throat loudly.

“Lord Jorah Mormont, Lady Maege Mormont, Lady Dacey Mormont, Lady Alysane Mormont.”

Sandor had never met a bear before, but he would have been able to guess their House anyways, from the way they dressed and carried themselves. The oldest woman, her dark hair going grey in soft streaks, and her belly stretched from bearing children already, was strong and sturdy, and walked on two stout legs with pride. A man walked with her also, who looked to be pressing on thirty namedays. He was—like his aunt—none too handsome, but built strong and tall, like many northern men Sandor had met. His demeanour was quiet, his bearded face unusually solemn.  

Two girls also walked with them, one Lyanna’s age, the other no more than four.

Sandor knew it would be more appropriate for Jorah Mormont to carry on with the introductions from there, but it was Maege Mormont who stepped forth, with no dispute from her party.

“My lord, forgive our late arrival. We were caught battling a band of wildlings off our shore when the blessed word came of your daughter’s union to Lord Baratheon.” Maege spoke in a gruff, throaty tone loud enough for all to hear. One man, the Greatjon if Sandor’s suspicion was correct, bellowed loudly,

 _“And you fought those damned wildlings off with your_ bear _hands, is that right, She-Bear?”_

The crowd tittered with amusement, and even Maege smiled grimly with them. “Nay,” she cracked a fierce grin, patting the spiked mace Sandor spotted on her hip. “Twas _this_ which beat them off. I’ll beat back any man who cares to take what’s mine!”

The crowd cheered with approval, and Greatjon pretended to take a cautious step back from Maege, causing another loud round of laughter.

When the noise died down and the dancing restarted at last, Lord Rickard stepped forward to greet the Mormonts properly, welcoming Jorah first with a firm grasp on his arm, then Maege with much the same treatment. The girls lingered behind their mother, the young child perched securely in her sister’s arms, looking about them with wide eyes.

Sandor turned to ask Lyanna what she thought of the guests, only to discover she had left his side in favor of taking off to greet the Mormonts as well. He trailed slowly after her, perplexed at her eagerness until he remembered the few months Lyanna had spent away from home not quite a year ago, under the care of Maege Mormont at Bear Island. Lyanna spoke fondly of the snarky She-Bear, and of her tenacious daughter, Dacey.

Dacey Mormont was no spectacular beauty, although he wouldn’t ever call her ugly. She had a sort of long face, with large eyes and a constantly furrowed brow. Even when she smiled, her brow remained somewhat pulled. She wore a heavy dress like the other two women, and looked both elegant and fearsome. Mormont women were taught to fight, he recalled dimly from his second-hand lectures. They knew how to defend themselves in event of a raid from the wildlings or the ironborn. Sandor had foolishly doubted how women could withstand the attack of fleets of wildlings until this very moment. He need only take one look at the She-Bear’s hard face, or at Dacey’s long, muscular arms in order to understand their strength.

The Mormonts weren’t strong _for women._ They were strong, _period._ It was no wonder why Lyanna took so strongly to the family.

Lyanna, forgoing decency in favor of wild exuberance, rushed into the arms of a silent, somber Dacey Mormont, careful not to jostle the baby in her arms too much. The girl, roughly Lyanna’s age herself, perhaps a few years older, smiled somewhat with her chin on Lyanna’s shoulder, her free arm around her back. “It’s good to see you too, milady,” said Dacey with an amused laugh. Her joy was plain and sincere, but at the same time it was oddly bitter, like she didn’t truly wish to be there.

Lyanna pulled away, only to take Dacey’s hands in her own, gripping them tightly. “Thank you,” Sandor heard her say very quietly.

Dacey only shook her head minutely. Lyanna dropped the matter at once. She turned to Sandor instead, with a trembling smile.

“Lord Jorah, Ladies of House Mormont, may I present to you Sandor of House Clegane. He is a ward of my father’s, and has been a great ally to our House.”

Lyanna beckoned him to step forward, which he did, and he bowed deeply to them. Dancing had taken some of the fears and stiffness away from himself, and the curiosity at Lyanna’s greeting made him bold.

“My lady, my lord,” Sandor nodded to each in turn, coming to stand at Lyanna’s side. “I hope your journey wasn’t too harrowing.”

“Nonsense!” Maege growled, her fists tucked high on her hips, eyes scouring the room for any invisible threats, it seemed. “We Mormonts love a challenge.”

“It was quite pleasant, thank you,” Dacey nodded to him curtly, lowering Alysane to the floor. The child practically dropped herself to the ground in a heap, so tired she was. “I wonder if I might trouble you to show me our rooms, my lady. My sister is tired, she’s so young…”

“Of course—”

“I will take her.” All turned to Ser Jorah, who spoke up for the first time. He already made to lift the child in his arms. “Please, stay and enjoy yourselves, Lady Lyanna, cousin.”

Dacey and Lyanna shared identical faces of dismay. “Oh, but it’s no trouble—” Lyanna began, only to have Benjen step in and cheerfully agree to show him to their chambers, leaving Sandor, Lyanna and Dacey alone when Maege slid into the crowd of lords, demanding her share of wine at once.

Sandor watched the She-Bear leave, his ears tuned carefully into the conversation behind him, taking place in hushed whispers.

 _“I’m glad you came,”_ Lyanna murmured. _“You didn’t have to.”_

_“I said I would. Why are you so surprised?”_

Lyanna didn’t answer, and he suspected it had become apparent he was listening by then. Fortunately for the girls, there came a commotion from where Ser Martyn and his wife stood with their children, Mikken beckoning Sandor with a large, impatient wave of his hand.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled to them, hurrying over to bid goodnight to Elinor and the Cassel family.

Elinor was tired and cranky at such a late hour, and so he made his farewells with haste. Jyna kissed him on the head quickly, offering him to come visit whenever he pleased, as she did every time he saw the family. Martyn nodded once at his brother, and a few other knights, before carrying his youngest son out in his arms, alongside his wife. Sandor watched the black curls of his sister disappear through the crowd with a sharp pang of longing mixed with a growing sense of peace. He was still bitter and terribly jealous some days, but more than anything he was grateful for his grandfather’s interference, that Elinor would grow in a home surrounded by love and warmth, rather than the rage and fear Sandor had endured for the first six years of his life.

“Be good now, lad,” Mikken ordered, softening his words with a ruffle of his hand in Sandor’s dark, shoulder-length curls. “I’ll be in touch.”

“See you, Mikken.”

After they departed, a few minor families leaving with them, Sandor looked around for the two girls he was just speaking to. He saw Robert, deep in his cups. Ned, frowning next to the stag, while Lord Stark turned a blind eye to the matter. And at last, from across the hall, he thought he spotted Lyanna guiding Dacey by the hand, the pair clinging to the shadows of the walls to avoid the watchful gaze of Lord Stark and Lord Baratheon. Ready to escape the eyes of the young ladies his age, Sandor sped off after them, in hopes of catching up to Lyanna and perhaps asking her for just one more dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My loves, we're finally getting to the good stuff, at last! We're going to touch into some non-canon content in the near future, so be warned. I guess it could be canon, you never know... Ah, you'll see! (I'm very excited btw. I hope you enjoy it as much as I am enjoying writing it!)
> 
> Also, can I make a polite, formal request that people STOP tagging relationships in their stories when the couple appears for all of, like, two sentences??? Is that ok? I mean, this story is going to have one reference to Dany/Khal Drogo at some point, but I'm not going to TAG it, because I know how frustrating that can be for readers trying to find Dany/Drogo fics.
> 
> Anyways. Thanks to all who have supported me thus far. Much more to come! 
> 
> All my love and appreciation,   
> Miss Mallora


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we experience a minor time jump, I stray from canon (most likely, anyways), and the Tourney begins. Hooray!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hummed and hahhed over this chapter for so bloody long. Eventually I just had to say "hell with it" and follow my instincts. 
> 
> Also: I don't know what a seven-sided melee in the ancient style is. Your guess is as good as mine. And Robert isn't going to compete in the joust at the Tourney of Harrenhal, for no real reason other than I felt like it. So there. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy :)

It was a particularly bitter sort of cold when Brandon Stark chose to return home, though his boisterous laughter did bring a certain warmth back to Winterfell’s halls once more. The keep was oddly cheery compared to its usual somberness; then again, perhaps that was less to do with Lord Brandon’s return and far more to do with Robert Baratheon’s long-awaited departure, as well as that of all northern guests. The excitement Lyanna’s engagement stirred up had been, well, _exciting_ initially (if one could overlook Lyanna’s misery), but after weeks of entertaining, Sandor had grown tired and bored of the constant visitors in the training yard.

Robert parted from the Stark’s household with one long, wistful glance over the keep, a brotherly embrace for Ned and something muttered in his ears to make the serious young man crack a faint grin. For his intended, he gave a kiss on the hand, lingering on her knuckles long enough for Lyanna—and, indeed, most of those watching the exchange—to know very well it wasn’t her hands he wished to kiss.

And then he was gone, and no sooner had the man left than Brandon had come home, riding into the gates of Winterfell with his head held high and reins roped in one fist. Sandor had been there to greet him, along with the rest of the Stark family, and though he was greeted last, he received as warm a welcome as Benjen or Ned did.

“Sandor,” Brandon exclaimed with a warm familiarity. He clapped the young boy on the shoulders, grinning widely. “Look at you! Taller every day, hmm?”

“Yes, and it’s becoming a right nightmare trying to keep him dressed,” Lyanna piped up behind them. Sandor kept his gaze on Brandon, allowing the man to take him under his arm and drag him in the direction of the training yard.

“Come! I need a good spar. Ned, Ben—you too!” But Ben declined in favor of learning about grumpkins or white walkers or whatever other mythical beast he was reading on today, and Lyanna wordlessly followed him.

“Another time, perhaps,” Ned murmured, watching Lyanna and Ben, a slight frown on his face. “There is something I needs do…”

Brandon, a bit offended at their refusal, turned to his young friend with a deep sigh. “Just you and I then, Sandor.”

“Scared, Lord Brandon?”

The heir tossed his head back and laughed, confidence and eagerness returned once more. “Cocky! You’ve grown some spine since I last saw you.”

“I’ve grown some skill as well.” They each donned their armor and blunted sword of choice. The yard was quiet for the time being, as Brandon had arrived midday, during the noon meal for most of the household. Though his stomach rumbled too, Sandor found the opportunity to spar with his idol too good to pass on.

Sandor and Brandon circled one another in the ring, twirling their swords, growing acquainted with the feel of a blade.

“So? No other excitement in Riverrun, but for the fight with—what’s his name?”

Brandon barked a laugh at once at Sandor’s question, shaking his head. “Petyr Baelish. Scrawny little green boy. You’d take him on easily, I’ve no doubt.”

“What was he thinking, challenging you?”

Brandon squinted at his own blade, frowning at some slight in it he’d discovered, shifting the grip he had on his shield in the other hand. “Hmm? Oh. It was for the hand of Lady Catelyn. I can’t say I blame him.”

Sandor raised his eyebrows. “He wanted her hand? But that marriage would never be suitable…?”

Brandon just shrugged, uncaring. “Common sense has failed many green lads in love before. I left him a suitable reminder of his stupidity, though. Hopefully it will serve him well in the future.”

“And what do you think of your betrothed?”

He glanced up from his sword, an odd smile of confusion and remembrance curling his lips. “Catelyn Tully? She’s a pretty girl. Her father seems a wise man.”

But Sandor shook his head. “No, what do you _think_ of her? I mean, what’s she like?”

“Like?” Brandon frowned fractionally. “I can’t say I know.”

“But…” Sandor pursed his mouth unhappily. “But don’t you know anything about her? You spent so much time with her…?”

“I know she has nice teats and a face like the maiden made flesh,” Brandon grinned roguishly at him, but Sandor knew the sourness pulling at his mouth wasn’t from the aftertaste of Dornish wine. The act he was putting on only made Sandor more impatient.

“But what of _her?_ Who she _is?”_ Sandor couldn’t withhold his incredulity. _“_ How can you marry if you don’t like her?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” he snapped, flashing from cold to hot the way only Brandon Stark was capable of. His scowl grew fierce and dark. _The Wild Wolf,_ he was called, and everyone knew why. “All that my father is concerned with is if she is unwed, and if she is a Tully. Both are positive, so the rest is pointless.” He shoved the blade back into his scabbard. “There is nothing else to say.”

Sandor thought there was plenty left to say, but he knew better than to push Brandon when the man was upset like this. His body seemed taller and broader than ever, his mouth twisting unhappily as they sparred, even as he offered Sandor tips and encouragement.

“Good!” he shouted, when Sandor nearly clipped him in the arm. “Again, like that. But harder! Faster, Sandor!”

There was little doubt as to who the victor was at the end, but Sandor had always known Brandon would best him for the time being. Talented as he was, Sandor was no match for the broadly-built, fine swordsman Brandon was shaping into. Lord Stark liked to remind his eldest that he had a long way to go, but Sandor wondered if that was _entirely_ truthful. Brandon had the strongest arm and stride he’d ever seen on one his age. It wasn’t just impressive; it was inspiring.

Truth be told, if Sandor didn’t like Brandon so well, he’d likely resent him instead, or at least envy him terribly. But Brandon was kind to him as he typically was, and Sandor had always had difficulty feeling anything but brotherly affection for him, the sort his own flesh and blood had never inspired in him, not that he could recall. Sometimes Sandor wondered what it would be like to be a real Stark, to have been born to brothers who wouldn’t try and maim him, born to a father that would protect him, a sister who would…who would… Spy on him?

Sandor, sweating and panting from the match, looked out past the fence and into the trees, where the flickering hem of a dress could be seen through the trunks. Then there was a flash of inky-black hair down the back of a grey dress, mournful eyes gazing at him through the branches.

“Lyanna?” Brandon waved her over, confused at her slinking through the shadows. “What are you doing hiding in the trees? Father will have your head if he sees you in there. And to think, I hear you played the part of the lady quite well, despite your _true_ nature,” he teased with all the crassness custom to the pair, but Lyanna paid no mind to his words.

“I was waiting for your fighting to finish,” she said quietly, locking eyes on Sandor. The boy’s own gaze darted between her worried face and his own hands, gripping the hilt of his sword. Time passed, enough to tell Brandon that there was something going on, something he wasn’t privy to just yet.

Not that Lyanna had any intention of filling her brother in on the secret, Sandor was certain.

“I wondered if I might steal Sandor, brother? Only for a while.”

Sandor sucked in a deep breath, praying for Brandon to put up a fuss, to make some excuse, to keep him away from Lyanna and her _secret._ But Sandor was disappointed, for Brandon only shrugged and said, “If you must.”He walked off to leave them on their own, Lyanna and Sandor, staring at each other with deep looks of apprehension and misgivings.

Scathing comments crawled up the back of Sandor’s throat, but he kept them down, long enough for Lyanna to feel spurred into speaking.

“I’m sorry for cornering you like this, but you didn’t seem to get any of my messages.”

“I got them.”

She blinked, not a little bit hurt at his curt honesty. “Oh,” she said very quietly. “I see.” She curled a stray tendril of hair behind her red-tipped ears, blushing slightly with embarrassment. Regret bubbled in his belly at his harsh words, but Sandor felt entirely out of his own skin when around Lyanna Stark anymore. Ever since two weeks past, ever since the night of the feast…

“We needs speak in private. Please, Sandor,” she asked him urgently, softly. Men and young lads in training begin to emerge from the hall where they took their meal, some of them are headed to the weaponry racks, others to the fences, some to the armory. Sandor didn’t have time to duck into the forest for a quick conversation with his oldest, closest friend.

“I have training,” he said, a bit helpless and apologetic now, and glad of the reprieve.

But Lyanna takes his arm and leads him away a bit instead. “I was worried…about your reaction…”

“I was surprised.” Sandor’s body was utterly stiff, his shoulders squared defensively. “I wasn’t _expecting_ that…”

“No, I suppose you weren’t…” Lyanna tried smiling and failed spectacularly. Her voice quavered minutely, the sound swallowed almost entirely in the cold air.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you? It won’t happen again, I swear it…”

Sandor shook his head before she’d finished speaking. “I won’t tell a soul.”

“I… Thank you, Sandor. You…you mean a great deal to me.” She rang her hands against her belly, twisting them nervously. “I hope I can still call you friend.”

He blinked, startled. Had she really thought he wouldn’t? “Of course you can.” Sandor frowned deeply. “I was surprised, that’s all. I don’t… We’re still friends, Lya.” It’s the use of her moniker that grants him the sight of her smile, he knew so. Still, whatever the reason, it was nice to see all the same.

“Friends?” Lyanna said the word with a hopeful, relieved smile. There was a sheen to her eyes, a glossy gaze that made his heart clench in sympathy, and made him feel even worse about avoiding her for weeks now.

“Friends,” he agreed firmly, and turned back to recommence his training for the day.

But she called after him. “Will you come with us, then? To the tourney?”

Sandor thought of the collective invitation Lord Whent had sent to the major houses of Westeros, the one Lord Stark had offered for Sandor to attend with the Stark children. The tournament would be taking place in a month’s time at Harrenhal, and many lordlings and knights were riding out to compete for what was said should be a remarkable prize.

Sandor nodded firmly at her, unable to withhold his grin at the thought of it. To see a _real_ tourney.

Lyanna smiled back at him, the hopeful glimmer flourished and grew into a sparkle. “To Harrenhal, then!” she toasted, walking back in the direction of the keep.

“Aye,” Sandor murmured to himself, though she didn’t hear him. “To Harrenhal.”

* * *

 

It seemed a terrible waste to Sandor, that such a beautiful castle was cursed for any owner who occupied it. For the holdings were vast and green, and the soil dark and moist. Winter was over, many were saying, though such things hardly held true in the north, where the cold remained and the snow dusted the ground every few weeks.

One would hardly know it was winter in the land of Harrenhal, though. The weather was warmer, the air sweet and pleasant on the tongue. Although he missed Winterfell quite dearly, Sandor had no hardship confessing that he enjoyed the journey south very much. Whether it was the brighter skies which lifted the solemn spirits, or the freedom from Lord Stark’s careful, all-knowing gaze, something had changed between the five companions to make them all lighter and carefree. Even Ned—the quiet wolf, Lyanna called him—laughed and smiled some at Brandon’s japes and Lyanna’s banter.

Sandor had been right about the prize’s worth, for it was a small fortune Lord Whent was offering. And because of that, the lands surrounding Harrenhal were packed with guests who had travelled from all over Westeros, pitched tents scattered over the plains as frequently as fallen leaves. Sandor and his companions were hardly the first visitors to arrive, but they were blessedly not the last either. Brandon found them a spot near the tourney, which had been reserved specially for the major houses of Westeros.

“The royal family will remain indoors, of course. But it’s not like to be pleasant in there anyways. Too many stiff-necked lords and their preening ladies for my taste.” Brandon muttered to himself, collapsed in one of the chairs that had been brought down from the castle. Only Lyanna was granted a chamber inside the castle, owing to that of her being a lady and needing privacy—if not from her brothers, than from Sandor himself. Lyanna hadn’t been too pleased about being relocated, by herself no less, but she had borne it with grace and thanked their host for his generosity and consideration.

The tent Lord Stark had sent with his sons was a fine one, a larger one compared to those belonging to the green knights and common visitors who stayed on the holdings with them. Their retinue pitched tents around them, circling them and making certain the heir of Winterfell was well protected.

“So how long is the tourney?”

“The celebrations will go on for ten days. Seven for the competition.” Ned wiped his face clean of the sweat and dirt he had accumulated over the course of their journey. He sighed in contentment when he felt he’d done a satisfactory job, letting the droplets roll off his jaw and catch on the fresh, clean tunic he donned.

“And five days for the jousting!” Brandon reminded them, shaking his hair free of water, sending a brief shower of rain onto Sandor and Benjen’s heads, who had been sitting next to him on their pallets.

“Five days for jousting? So long?” Ben asked skeptically.

“Have you seen the crowd gathered at the gates? I suspect we’ll be weeding out the first round all day the first day, and the second as well, most like. Won’t be ‘til the third we see anything interesting.” Brandon flexed his arms boldly, grinning at his brothers. “Anyone care to place their bets?”

“No one wants to lose money on you, brother,” Ned muttered, but it was accompanied with a flicker of a grin. Brandon landed a blow on his shoulder nonetheless.

“Gods. Being with Baratheon all day has made you such a shit. Talking back to your big brother?”

“I’d hardly call being practical ‘talking back.’ Would you, Ben?”

Without warning, without any signal at all, the flap of their tent swung open, leaving all the boys inside gaping.

“ _Lyanna_!” Brandon shouted, utterly scandalized, for it was none other than the sister of the Stark boys marching inside. “What were you thinking? We could have been naked as our nameday!”

“And what a terrible sight that would’ve been.” She stepped inside with a brisk stride, her determination undeterred by their shock. She turned around to look back at the entrance and, like the others, found it to be empty. With her head poked outside the tent, she began motioning to someone the rest of them couldn’t see. Her voice could be heard faintly, trying ardently to coax someone. “Come on, this way… It’s alright.”

“Lyanna? Who is it?”

Lyanna didn’t answer, but reached out to carefully take a boy by the arm and guide him inside. At least, Sandor thought it was a boy…. He was such a scrawny thing, he looked more like a beanpole than a human. Besides that, his nose seemed broken, and so spouted blood down his face rather profusely. He also bore a limp in his right ankle, causing him to lean heavily on Lyanna—though he looked embarrassed to do so.

“This is Lord Howland of House Reed,” Lyanna declared proudly, helping him onto a pallet. Brandon made a sound of recognition, while Ben and Ned just nodded politely at him.

“Lord Howland, this is my eldest brother, Brandon. We call him the wild wolf. And that’s Ned, there; he’s the quiet wolf. And the little twigs are Benjen Stark and Sandor Clegane. Ben’s the pup.” Lyanna’s gaze drifted over to Sandor’s, over the head of Howland Reed, who was nodding and murmuring greetings to all of them.

“Sandor Clegane is the most loyal friend I have,” she said quietly, almost to herself, momentarily distracted from the task at hand. “He’s…rather like a faithful pup, perhaps. A hound.”

“A hound!” Brandon thundered, looking to Sandor gleefully. “Gods! That’s what he is, isn’t it? Not quite a wolf—but close enough to it!”

“A _hound??_ What’s so fierce about a hound?” Sandor frowned up at them, arms folded resolutely. At the same time, Benjen was making sounds of earnest protest— _I’m older than Sandor!_ He _should be the pup!_

“Ah, but no one’s scrawnier than you, little brother,” Brandon said fondly, reaching out to ruffle Ben’s hair, only to receive a swat and a scowl for the efforts.

The lady in the room grew impatient with their antics. “Hand me that water please, Brandon?” Lyanna huffed at everyone as she began peeling back layers of cloth from Howland Reed’s body, doubly irritated when Brandon handed her the bowl filled with the water they had all used to wash themselves. _“Fresh_ water, please! By the gods!”

The heir of the north rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, stepping over to the supply of water they kept while Lyanna dabbed at a particularly bad scrape on Howland’s elbow, wincing with him out of sympathy. She began her story in hushed tones. “I was coming down to visit you lot, when I heard shouting not far from here. These three young squires, as green as this bloody grass, were beating Lord Howland half to death! And _then,_ to make things worse, I recognized his banner right away; I knew he was one of our bannermen. They were beating a man of the north! That’s absolutely disgraceful!”

Lyanna huffed and scowled to herself at the memory, busying herself with washing the crusted blood off of Howland’s face with the water Brandon had given her. Once mumbling and rolling his eyes sourly, Brandon was now equally incised, and he too was glowering at Howland’s cuts, at the insult they represented to House Stark and all its men.

“What did you do then?” asked Sandor. At once, Lyanna grew a bit sheepish, carefully directing her attention to Lord Howland’s nose.

“I…well, I did what any good woman would do.” Lyanna blustered, apologizing quietly when Howland winced unexpectedly, flinching at the unintentional pain she inflicted on his battered face. “I told them that was my father’s man, and spied a tourney sword on the ground—one of theirs, I suspect—and I, well…”

“Lyanna!” said Ned, utterly aghast. “You didn’t!”

“I did,” said Lyanna, a bit more proud and bolder in the face of her brothers’ disbelief. “You would’ve done the same!”

Brandon grunted. “He’s a man. You’re supposed to be a lady, remember?” He shook his head, long hair sweeping his shoulders as he did.

She stiffened then, her nose turned upwards. “I _hardly_ see how that matters when it comes to plain decency.”

“It matters,” Ned interrupted, “because you’re to be wed to Lord Baratheon come next year. What do you suppose he’d think if he heard you were beating squires with swords and escorting men back to your tent?”

“A right sight more than what I thought when I found out about his bastard daughter,” she snapped, rounding on him with a fierce bite in her words. Her grey eyes glowed with a devastating storm in the making, a power swirling there that Sandor had no interest in unleashing nor enduring.

They fell silent, watching brother and sister with trepidation. Sandor had heard rumors pertaining to the existence of a little girl living in the Eyrie, fathered by Robert himself. But he hadn’t dared bring the matter up to Lyanna, not when she had appeared to be clueless on the matter. Apparently he’d been misled; Sandor suspected she’d known about little Mya Stone all along.

It was Benjen who spoke next, straight and skinny Ben with his big ears and his quiet speculation. “Will you be coming to the feast tonight, Lord Howland?”

The crannogman shook his head at once, earnest in his denial. “No, no… No, I will eat with my men. We’re camped not far from here, I can walk quite well there.”

“You won’t come?” Lyanna looked dismayed. “But the feast is for all Houses attending the Tourney! Surely you must attend.”

Her genuine disappointment seemed to affect Howland, for he blushed and paused and grew uncertain with his decision at once. “I—well…”

“You must come,” Lyanna pressed, seeing her advantage. “Oh, please come! Come and sit with our family.”

“N-no, my lady, you do honor me too much….”

“You might as well say yes,” said Brandon in a bored drawl. “She’s downright insufferable when she doesn’t get her way.”

Howland’s beady eyes of doubt and self-consciousness darted between the four spectacular wolves of Winterfell, taking in even Sandor’s presence on occasion. He faltered in his conviction, and then let it fall away into dust altogether. “Very well. I…I would be honored to sit with yourselves, my lords, my lady.”

Lyanna made a sound of delight and Brandon clapped his hands, rubbing them briskly. “Then it’s settled: you’ll clean yourself up, Lord Howland, and join House Stark at the welcome feast tonight. And from there…” He grinned, feral and fleeting in its anticipating nature. “Then…we fight.”

* * *

 

The Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was an unusually beautiful man.

The son of King Aerys II sat at the head of the table, with his pretty wife at his side and his goblet full of the finest wine and his plate loaded with braised lamb and green beans in a creamy sauce and boiled potatoes topped with melted aged cheese. Though his host had spared no expense on the tourney, and certainly not on Rhaegar Targaryen’s plate, the young prince seemed less concerned with the bountiful meal, and more so with the conversation he had engaged in with Lord Whent himself.

Sandor and the Starks, along with Howland Reed who had decided to come after all, were seated relatively close to the prince, close enough that Sandor could make out the sheen to Rhaegar’s long white hair, the purple glimmer in his gaze. Sandor knew, from stories shared by Brandon and Ned, that the prince was no fool when it came to swordplay, nor should he be underestimated. (Ned had already warned Brandon, who was enrolled in the tourney and preparing to compete against him). He knew Rhaegar Targaryen took his training seriously enough. And yet, looking at him now, he felt struck by how overwhelmingly fragile this man looked, with his cheekbones and his long-fingered hands cradling the knife and fork with care. Sandor had been told once that Rhaegar was fond of music and reading and other learnt natures; now, at the welcoming feast by Lord Whent’s generosity, he found it easy to believe.

Across the table, Brandon was discussing with Robert and Ned, the curious event wherein Ser Jaime Lannister became a member of the Kingsguard earlier this evening, only to be missing from the feast mere hours later.

“It’s the king, gone and sent him away to King’s Landing. The little Lannister twerp wanted to stay and fight but King Aerys ordered him back, to go watch over his queen and newborn son.”

“Prince Viserys,” Brandon murmured distractedly, nodding to himself at Robert’s explanation. The Lord of House Baratheon had left his seat to come join the Starks mid-meal, something Sandor was sure to be frowned upon, yet the boisterous lord had shown little concern for politics thus far.

“It’s a wonder,” said Robert slowly, chewing his meat and looking up to the high table with speculation, “why he would send a knight in his service away from his side when…”

 _When it’s the King who looks so terribly ill._ Sandor could hear the unspoken words as well as any of them, he suspected; it did not take a maester to see the old king’s failing health. Whilst at one end of the table, Rhaegar sat regal and beautiful and everything princely, Aerys II took his seat as far from his son as possible, scowling at everyone and everything and eating his meal in silence. The king’s hair hung limp and brittle, and what was luxuriously beautiful for Rhaegar Targaryen was hideously decrepit on his father.

Ned barely spared the king a glance, keeping his eyes respectfully downwards at his plate. “His Grace has many fine knights to protect him. He doesn’t need some green boy throwing his lance around like a fool.” There certainly were a fine array of knights to choose from, men who left Sandor feeling a bit awestruck in their presence. Selmy, Whent, Hightower and Dayne, to name a few. At least three could be seen at the king’s side at all times, staring out from behind his chair and glowering down over the people in their magnificent cloaks of white velvet.

Robert snorted, all but inhaling his sour wine in one toss of his wrist. The cup fell onto the table with a heavy thud of his fist, a satisfied grunt escaping his lips. “Enough talk of Lannister shits. Tell me: how many men do you suppose will be crushed under my fierce strength tomorrow?” And his eyes glittered in anticipation, failing to catch Brandon rolling his own eyes beside him.

Lyanna, spying Brandon’s sour face, smiled a bit, which poor Robert then mistook to be encouragement for his ego.

“Ah, my lovely lady. Will you attend the Tourney, and watch me crush foolish greenboys with my bare hands tomorrow? It won’t be for faint of heart.”

Lyanna at once stiffened, though she masked it with a perfectly sad smile. “I will be among the people, watching you and cheering for you always, my lord. Though I fear what should happen if you and my brother fight one another; I hate to think I might be torn so.”

Sandor wanted to laugh at her pretty simpering, but he bit his tongue for Lyanna’s sake. Somehow, by some will of the gods, Robert had thus far bought all of Lyanna Stark’s sweet lies, staring at her with eyes so struck with awe, Sandor wondered if when he looked at her, he saw the bright woman she was or the goddess she was not.

“Nonsense!” said Robert, clapping Brandon firmly on the shoulder. “Brandon will be jousting. We won’t cross paths but for the winner’s circle.”

Lyanna frowned. “You won’t joust, my lord?”

But Robert scoffed, shaking his head with surprising humility. “No. Never had a taste for it really. Give me a hammer and a field of men, and I’ll crack skulls ‘til there’s none left but mine!”

“I never had an appreciation for the hammer, until I saw Robert wield one,” says Ned conversationally. He glanced over at his friend, nodding to him in compliment, “He makes short work of a sparring match.”

The man in questions smiled, nearly feral. “I almost pity those green shits waiting outside,” he muttered, and Brandon went to say something when there was a frantic hushing sound drifting across the hall.

 _The Crown Prince!_ everyone seemed to be saying to one another, in awe and excitement. _The Crown Prince!_

Sandor turned his attention back to Rhaegar Targaryen who, lo and behold, had risen to his feet, with the finest instrument Sandor had ever lain eyes on in his hands.

“My lords and ladies! I hope you are enjoying yourselves as much as I. Our wonderful host, Lord Whent, could have arranged no finer a meal than the one laid out before us all. What a fine way to welcome the spring!” Everyone cheered, and toasts to Rhaegar and Walter Whent went up in the air, very few cheering for their own king. Aerys scowled down at everyone until they fell silent, as though oddly abashed at their display of love for the Crown Prince.

“I hope you will not mind if I play you a song this night, as thanks to our gracious host, and to honor of my beautiful wife, Princess Elia, and of course, for love of my father, our king, whom we do serve and love until his dying day.” Rhaegar raised his tankard, and the rest of the room joined him in drinking from whichever nectar topped their cup. And then he sat down, smiling quietly at the tiny dark-haired beauty seated next to him, and laid his harp on his knee.

And then he began to play.

Sandor was no proficient at musical things. He lacked the tutelage to know what made a song sound sweet, and the only lyrics he could recall were bawdy ones exchanged in the training yard. His dance with Lyanna was one of his only encounters with proper dancing, let alone with a highborn lady, and so he truly knew nothing in regards to song and dance. Yet there was something moving about Rhaegar’s song, something haunted and forlorn.

Even Sandor, in all his inexperience, could see that.

Shortly into the song, Sandor found himself looking about, mindful of the reactions around him. Lords and ladies alike were awestruck, with soft eyes and dazed stares. All seemed to fall in love with their Crown Prince in that moment (save for King Aerys II, who—if anything—grew angrier and surlier by the second). Sandor went to nudge Lyanna, seated next to him, when he spotted the look of her young, doe-eyed face, breathless and besotted and weeping silent tears.

Sandor felt his eyes widen. Lyanna seemed oblivious to his startle; in fact, she was oblivious to the rest of the world around her. Reflexively he cast his gaze to Brandon, looking to share in his shock, but the Lord of Winterfell’s eldest son was too busy staring across the room at something. Some _one,_ Sandor realized, glancing over his shoulder to see a very beautiful woman smiling coyly at Brandon, with as much rapt focus as Brandon had.

Benjen eventually caught sight of his sister’s tear-stained cheeks, and a look of boyish glee lit up his face. With a wicked grin and when the song had ended, he leaned over to her and made sniffling sounds, whispering, “Gods, that’s beautiful. Hand me your handkerchief, won’t you, Lya?”

Brandon coughed into his fist and even Ned bit back a smile. Robert, Sandor saw with a pleased hum, was staring silently at his betrothed, baffled and nearly hurt by the profuse show of admiration.

As for Lyanna, the lady of the north seemed to think only a moment on the consequences before seizing the cup she had only just raised in the air in a toast, and promptly upended it atop her youngest brother’s head. Brandon and Robert, joined in the amusement of the jape, howled with laughter, while Ned looked on with a scolding eye and Ben glowered from under his sopping curls.

 _Women,_ Sandor thought to himself, a bit unkindly, _are so fickle._

It felt like only yesterday that he was leaving the feast for Lyanna’s engagement, sneaking out in search of the bride-to-be and the bear-lady she had left with. He remembered with stark clarity, how he had followed a pair of wet footprints into the heart of the godswood, whereupon he spied the two ladies with long hair embracing one another—not as sisters-in-arms—but with warmth and tenderness, gentle touches, quiet giggles, and a long soft, kiss.

Lyanna Stark seemed to have a love for all things—and all people—beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID YOU SEE WHAT I SLIPPED IN THERE? DID YOU SEE IT? It was at the very end. 
> 
> I generally dislike bending a character's explicit sexuality, but really? Representation in ASOIAF suckssss, guys. Like...really. And don't tell me "oh Renly/Loras had that plot" because BOO it was over so fast and we never saw it and I know it's a "historical world" and all but OK I'M GOING FOR IT ANYWAYS. ALSO ok so we don't KNOW she wasn't bi. Like, she COULD'VE been. YOU CAN'T PROVE ANYTHING.
> 
> (So yes Lyanna is bisexual and it's v.important to me and I hope you all accept this, but really it's such a minor thing, like why would it bother you? Really now. It's nbd, I swear). 
> 
> In other news, who else is very antsy to get to Sansa and Sandor's interactions because even I am DYING here. I'm considering posting the sequel and trying to update it while doing this guy here, but really, we all know what'll happen. I'll abandon this one, and do nothing but sansan scenes forever, which would be cheating.... Alas.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I love the feedback, it means the world to me! 
> 
> All my love,  
> MissMallora


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tale of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, as told by MissMallora.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a couple tweaks to the story Meera tells, for my own shits and giggles really. 
> 
> All in all, I'm rather proud of this one. If anyone's reading, please do share your thoughts. 
> 
> Otherwise, please enjoy!

_“Lyanna!” She looked at him with wide eyes, drenched in her own sweat, startled for a moment before she realized who he was. “Come on! This way!”_

_He dragged her by the hand into the smattering of tents, further and further, until he could spot the woods on the fringe of the clearing. “Go,” he gasped, and urged her on. Behind them he could hear voices calling, a man yelling for him to stop in the name of the king._

_She went to say something, but Sandor just pushed her on, wide-eyed and urgent. There was no time to be thankful, not now._

_She could thank them if they both got out of this alive._

* * *

 

 

_Earlier that day…_

“I’ve found them!”

Lyanna Stark burst through the tent in an impressive flurry, hair windswept from her excited stride. In her hands she clutched her skirts, holding them slightly aloft to make travelling easier, and Sandor could spy the toes of her muddy boots from where he sat on his trundle.

“I’ve found them,” she said again. “The squires who treated you ill, Lord Howland, and the knights they represent! They will all fight in the joust today!” Her eyes flashed their wild wolf grey; faced with such breathless excitement, Sandor could see it that made the crannogman feel utterly bewildered. Sandor wasn’t nearly as surprised as the rest were, for Lyanna had done naught but scour the grounds for any sign of the three who attacked her new friend. And she’d been given the freedom to do so as well, since Brandon was competing and Robert, all day yesterday, had been terribly wine-sick from his own competition on the night of the welcoming feast.

In truth, Sandor was surprised it had taken her so long.

“You—you did?” Howland blinked owlishly at them, everyone in the tent now staring at him expectantly, awaiting his decision.

“Yes. From Houses Haigh, Blount and Frey. _Cowardly_ little sh—”

“That’s quite enough, Lyanna, thank you.” Ned sighed, and stood with some deliberation. He walked towards their bannerman, a careful look of consideration on his face. “What will you do now, Lord Reed? My brothers and myself will help you any way we can.”

“And myself as well!” said Lyanna, glaring at her brother for forgetting her. But Ned ignored her, as focused on Howland’s reaction as they all were.

The crannogman took time to gather his words. “I…I should fight them,” Howland said slowly, a deep furrow knotting his brows, tucking his chin to his chest as he pondered. “I should fight them, and restore my honor.”

Brandon shrugged mildly, his elbows bowed on his knees, leaning forwards towards the scrawny man. “We have armor, if you wish. And weaponry to lend, if you are requiring it.”

Howland deliberated on the heir of Winterfell’s words for some time, chewing the idea for some time, when all of the sudden he leapt to his feet. And with a bold yell, declared, “I _will_ fight them!”

“That’s the spirit!”

“You do our House proud.”

“I know you can beat them!”

Howland smiled at them all from his shaky knees, took in a deep breath (presumably to talk) and promptly dropped back into his chair.

“No, I can’t,” he mumbled, dejected as ever there was. His shoulders slumped with the weight of his self-doubt and his mumbled words dredged feelings of pity and irritation in Sandor’s heart. He had little use for pride when it stopped one from being brave. “I cannot face them and lose. I couldn’t bear the humiliation.”

Lyanna looked crestfallen. “But…but Lord Howland, surely you must—”

“That’s enough of that,” said Ned sternly, cutting his eager sister off once more. “If Lord Reed does not wish to compete, no one will force him. Do you understand me, Lyanna?”

“Yes, brother,” says she, with a face as sour as spoilt milk. “I was hardly going to _force_ him to do anything. I only wanted to help.”

“I am grateful for your assistance, my lady,” said Howland. “You and your family’s support has given me the strength and encouragement to march forth with my head held high. I won’t let you down again.”

“You did not let any of us down. How they acted was cowardice.” Lyanna looked sorely unhappy, but a curt glare from Brandon stopped her in her tracks. “Still, we are glad to be of any assistance.”

Benjen stepped forth with slow, considerate caution. “Shall we be leaving now? The tourney recommences shortly…”

“An excellent idea.” Brandon took Benjen under his arm, while Ned graciously led Howland out of their tent. Lyanna, meanwhile, lingered behind and Sandor watched her face filled with contempt, with a terrible feeling of uncertainty dwelling in his belly.

“Lyanna,” Brandon called, halfway outside before he realized she’d not moved. “Coming?” Sandor lingered behind with her, shooting her a look of utter perplexity.

But the lady was calm and assuring, smiling with the confidence and grace he’d witnessed from her a handful of times before. “I…I fear I am feeling rather unwell, brother. Would you mind terribly if I retired to my chambers for the day?” She smiled so sweetly and batted her eyelashes in a fluttering motion that made Brandon laugh sharply, Benjen still tucked under his arm.

“You’re a terrible liar, sister.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the castle, smiling ruefully her way. “Go on, then. If you _are_ too cowardly to watch those wicked knights compete...”

Lyanna pretended not to hear his taunt. “Sandor can escort me,” she said instead, and half-seized Sandor on her way out, giving neither Brandon nor himself the opportunity to argue. As they marched off in the direction of the castle, Sandor looked over his shoulder to see his friends disappearing into the sizeable crowd, three dark heads and a feeble young man traipsing off to the tourney.

“Lyanna!?” he protested loudly, pulling free from her carefully. She had walked them to an empty row of tents, and was now looking around her with suspicion and doubt. “What are we doing? I thought you wanted to see the fighting?”

“Oh, I do. And I will. Fear not, Sandor. We’ll both see the jousting today.”

“Oh? And how do you plan on doing that from your chambers, then?”

But Lyanna did not answer him, too busy looking about the field they were camped in, searching for something Sandor couldn’t guess. Pitched tents scattered the land as far as the eye could see; one could hardly take a step without stepping in someone’s sleeping space. Sandor darted around one tent, then another, struggling to keep up with her pacing.

“This way,” she hissed, and abruptly took him by the hand, turning sharply around a corner and headed back in the direction they came. Sandor kept silent as they ran, holding his breath even to try and stifle his panting. Lyanna did the same, rushing on her tiptoes and holding the hem of her skirts aloft in one free hand.

They made it back to the Stark’s tent without being seen, and before Sandor could remind her of the impropriety of it all, Lyanna had practically shoved him back into the makeshift room, stepping in after.

“Did you hear what Brandon said?” she asked, turning about the tent and straining her eyes to better see.

“What? Lya, what are we doing?”

But she didn’t answer him. Instead she dragged Brandon’s sack out from the corner, where scant few of his belongings remained. A water skin, empty, and a few odd bits of Winterfell brought with him. A lock of black hair wrapped in grey ribbon. Anything but his clothes, which were either being washed by their servants or else being worn on his body.

“Remember what Brandon said?” Lyanna asked, reaching behind his belongings where a few pieces of scrap metal laid. “What he said to Howland, when he said he would fight. He said that we have—”

“Armor and weaponry.” Sandor frowned at her, a deep, slow frown that made him feel restless. “Yes, I remember. Lyanna… What are you doing right now?”

She grabbed the circular shield in one hand, and in the other a mismatched breastplate and helm. With a victorious, nearly mad grin, she spun around and smiled.

“I need your help.”

* * *

 

“This is madness,” he muttered over and over. For the past hour and a half, he had done nothing else. Lyanna had long since given up reassuring him, preferring to talk to herself in confident, soothing tones instead.

“Just have to…unhorse three buffoons. It will be easy as anything.” She kept murmuring to herself as she wound her hair into braids, and those braids in a pile atop her head, high enough where no one would see them. Her dark hair, although not unlike the hair of other southroners, was unique enough to draw attention to herself, and so she’d forced Sandor into watching her style her own curls, pinning them in a way he’d never seen her do before.

Next she had slipped on a pair of Benjen’s breeches and his tunic—how she managed, he couldn’t say—and stuffed her feet into a pair of boots likely meant for a child in training.

Sandor had sat in silence all the while, saying nothing other than those words repeatedly. _This is madness._ And it was. She was an imbecile if she thought she stood a chance against the three knights.

“You don’t joust! If it was sword fighting, then _maybe…”_

“All I have to do is hold my spear correctly, aim true, and then—” she mimicked the sound of the spearhead whistling through the air and then shattering against a shield.

He only prayed it would be the sound of her _opponent’s_ shield shattering.

“This is madness.”

“Would you stop saying that??” Lyanna flicked one stray strand of hair into place, satisfied enough to try on the helmet at last. “I told you, everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

“How? Lyanna, your _brothers_ are going to find out about this. Think about Robert! Think about how he’ll react!”

She scoffed at him. “That only makes me want to joust more.”

“Fine!” he snapped, and flung the breastplate she’d taken for herself into her arms. “But _you_ have to get yourself ready. I won’t have any part in this, not even as your damn squire.”

Lyanna shrugged cheerfully, already pressing the armor to her belly, sizing herself up with a critical eye. “Very well. I am sure that will be of comfort to my brothers when they learn how you knew I would be fighting and yet did nothing to make sure I was properly protected.”

Sandor sent her his most sincere scowl, twisting his scars freely with the depth of his anger.

“Sometimes,” he began tiredly, “I really wish you were more like the lady Robert thinks you to be.”

She laughed, a terribly bitter sound. “You and my father both. Now are you going to help me with this or not?”

* * *

 

Once when Sandor was new to Winterfell and all its wilderness, he came across a wounded rabbit. The small critter had been attacked by something big and mean, and yet lived to tell the tale by some stroke of luck, or by misfortune, perhaps. Seeing as the poor animal was in pain and surely dying, to watch it suffer was cruel. Sandor had called for Mikken, who had grimaced at the sight of the wee creature, and grabbed a hammer from the shelf. Horrified, Sandor had watched the whole ugly scene play out; he watched Mikken grab the crying animal by the neck, watched him lift the hammer high and bring it down on his head in one solid thud.

Sandor hadn’t wanted to watch. It was with a sick compulsion that he witnessed the sorry scene, and even after he felt the need to gag coming upon him, he couldn’t tear his gaze from the dead animal. As though one of the gods had reached through the veil of time and death and grabbed hold of Sandor’s chin, forcing him to stare down on that rabbit and watch it die terribly, Sandor had watched.

It was that same horrible compulsion he felt watching Lyanna joust.

“You can’t come with me,” she told him before they left their tent, right before she had put her helm on. “None can know you helped me, or they could trace it back to myself.”

They—whoever “they” was—would also surely have Sandor whipped for complying to Lyanna’s wishes, no matter that she was his lady, and as much as he liked her, he had no desire to lose blood for her, _again_.

Sandor had consented, and ran ahead to the tourney, where he crept under the stand and crouched in silence, watching the jousting play out with no eyes to watch him. He thought he saw Brandon across the ring, but it was too far to tell, too dark from where he sat in wait. The seats over his head creaked and groaned as the crowd took their seats, and Sandor sat there the whole time, considering the depth of consequences he could face for his crimes with a churning, tossing belly.

The jousting blessedly began on time, and it went by like a dried leaf carried on the wind. The round of matches was none too long; Lord Whent had planned ahead, and broken the whole of the match into many tiny ones, allowing for victors to be crowned frequently throughout the day, and for the crowd to fall in love with a new champion every sunset and sunrise.

“Knight of the Laughing Tree?” one man said overhead, speaking in loud conversations with presumably his wife. “And what sort of name is that?”

“A prediction, mayhap? With the lad’s small size, no doubt we’ll be laughing soon enough!” Another man shouted, and they all howled. Sandor, with a sinking stomach, craned his neck and lay in wait for this knight to step into line of view, already know what he would see.

She was already on her horse, perfectly positioned, with a lance in hand. Although she had a considerable amount of size added onto herself thanks to the armor, she was still quite small compared to the others. A few men jested in the crowd about how delicate the lad’s bone structure must be, and mimicked girlish squeals and giggles for his companions.

Sandor felt himself go rigid, glowering up at the men, though they couldn’t see. Torn between cheering Lyanna on even more so, and else just falling into a pit of dread, Sandor contented himself instead with the knowledge that at least Lyanna only needed to face three men. Three men, and they could pretend this never happened. He could scarcely wait.

The pounding sound of horse hooves echoed in his ears from his huddled place, the smell of shit and sweat so pungent it made him gag. It was an uncomfortable angle he was forced into, and the only way to see out was if he craned his neck to peer between the wooden slats with squinted eyes.

“Gods,” he breathed when he spotted Lyanna on her mount, a big black stallion with a mean kick to his stride. He gripped tight to the beams holding the benches high, praying to all who would listen. _Don’t let her die. Don’t let her die. Please, gods, don’t let her die…_

And, by some stroke of luck, they listened.

Lyanna’s spear skewered the shield with ease, knocking the other rider—a large man of House Blount—into the mud, where he belonged. “Yes!” Sandor whispered to himself, grinning maniacally. The crowd overhead applauded almost politely, confusedly; some even made sounds of disappointment.

“The Knight of the Laughing Tree will advance into the next round. Laughing Tree versus House Haigh.”

The announcer’s poncy voice made Sandor roll his eyes, but at least the fighting moved quickly. The rider she’d unhorsed wasn’t killed—wasn’t likely injured at all—so there was no mess to haul back into the healing tents. The next joust proceeded with little respite, and Lyanna retreated back into the crowd with her head bowed humbly.

Three more rounds faced off. One man went down in a terrible flurry of movement, bleeding so greatly Sandor could see the splatter from where he stood. Another nearly lost his leg. He groaned quietly and clamped his hands over his head in dread.

Soon enough it was time for Lyanna to make her return. The crowd was less certain of the Knight of the Laughing Tree this time. Gone were the snarky mutterings and cruel jeers; there were no proclamations of love and endearment, but the crowds have always loved a champion. It was far more exciting to see one competitor win over and over than it was to see the reigns of the winner passed over again and again, every round.

She beat the next knight with an apparent show of ease, and this time the crowd _did_ cheer, a great deal more than before. Even at the distance he sat, Sandor could see Lyanna’s horse snorting and stomping his hooves in apparent pride, as though he knew who had won as well as the people.

Sandor looked across the ring to the King’s stand, where the old man with white hair was making a flurry of motions to the other knights there. He couldn’t make out facial expressions, and so there was no real reason to panic, but something in his stomach said it wasn’t good.

Suddenly it was the next match, and the final one Lyanna had enlisted in would occur shortly. Then Sandor could rest at ease again—after he shouted at her for scaring him like this, of course. Somewhere Brandon wouldn’t see them fighting, lest he catch on to what she’d done, what he’d _helped_ her do.

Three more matches took place, and Lyanna sat by the fence in wait for her turn. A few tried to speak with her, but she answered to none of them, keeping her hidden face fixed forward, arms hanging stiffly at either side. One man died terribly, with blood splattering in the sand hot and wet, and was dragged off by his squires (likely lads who would never account to anything).

The final competitor of the round Lyanna would face was a knight from House Frey, one of Walder’s many weasel-faced rats Brandon had rumbled about to Sandor a time or two before.  Even at a distance, he was a mean-looking boy, the sort Sandor could easily envision as a bully. He was the sort of man who might mock Sandor’s scars to his face, the sort to leer at Lyanna, the sort to show blatant disrespect for his liege. Sandor hated him at once, and judging from the way Lyanna had her horse twisting and turning on the spot, working into a deeper and deeper state of impatience, she felt the same.

“The final match of the round! The Knight of the Laughing Tree will face off against the champion Knight of House Frey.” A good handful of folks cheered for the unknown knight, a surprise to Sandor but welcome at least. _Let them like her. Let them like her long enough for her to live and get out of this farce._

He prayed feverishly for her in the time it took her to mount her steed and brace the lance at her waist. Without any stalling, they both rode forth… Lyanna struck the Frey boy, but only slightly. It wasn’t enough to wound or topple him, and so they each wielded about for the next go. Twice more did they run at each other, tilting, until at last—gods bless them all—Lyanna hefted her weapon at just the right angle and—

The weasel-faced rat dropped to the ground with a thud, and the crowd burst into an uproar of cheers. So loud was the stomping of feet over Sandor’s own head that it nearly deafened him. He cheered too, loud and practically blind with relief, slamming a fist into his flat palm, crying out triumphantly through gritted teeth. Joy and relief oozed in his chest to the point of light-headedness; he would barely see past the haze of victory.

Sandor scrambled out from under the wooden stands, and made for the tall tents pitched for victors, weaving between the crowd with a firm push every so often. He had to make it there before he ran into another competitor—Brandon or Robert, who only this morning had decided to enlist in the jousting after all. He ran past the scrolls to enlist, past the table of food for the champions and the lances for the knights, and came to a halt at the sight of an impossibly short knight.

“Ly---Ser!” he shouted, and waved his hand frantically for the helm of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, striding briskly into a tent. The “knight” paused at once, caught sight of Sandor, and immediately broke character, beckoning him with haste.

After sprinting to her, the pair all but threw themselves into the safety of the tent, and with a sharp tug, Sandor let the entrance flap fall shut. He spun on his heel to face her, still concealed by her helm. “You’re mad!” he half-shouted, dizzy still from all the excitement.

Lyanna slid her visor up, revealing a fraction of her flushed face and steel grey eyes. “What a thrill!” she said. “Did you see it? I trounced them all!” She cackled wickedly, and Sandor could do naught but smile reluctantly with her.

“Aye, you beat them. Now let’s leave and get you back into a lady’s clothes. If your brothers _see_ you…”

But there was a commotion at the tent’s entrance at that moment. “Go! Hide,” she hissed, and with no other option, Sandor dove under the back hem of the fabric tent, blessedly shimmying out without pulling the pegs from the ground. From within he could hear men speaking, flushed with fury and wounded pride. He drew close, and prayed none came upon him eavesdropping on the conversation of a knight.

 _“Who are you?”_ one shouted in a gruff voice. _“What sort of honorable knight refuses his challengers the honor of his name?”_

Sandor thought he heard Lyanna cough, her voice dropping as she did. When next she spoke, an unusually deep voice boomed through her helm.

_“The sort that frowns upon disrespectful squires.”_

There was a stunned silence; Sandor pressed his ear to the tent, struggling to hear the whole of the conversation.

_“Disrespectful squires? What foolishness is this?”_

_“You heard me!”_  Sandor grimaced; somehow, the idea of Lyanna shouting accusations at her defeated competition sat ill with him. _“I saw each of your squires the other day, beating an unarmed man black and blue.”_

_“Ser, I’ve not the foggiest what you speak of, but if it’s your will, I shall see my squire punished. Only…tell me what I must do to win back my possessions?”_

_“Lord Haigh!”_

_“I can hardly return home without my horse! Tell me, Ser, and it is yours.”_

He could almost hear Lyanna pondering the situation; the chance at true justice, he knew, she had never considered. In the end, the opportunity proved too good to pass up.

Lyanna’s deep voice echoed in the space between them. _“Scold your squires properly for their act of cruelty, and I will return all of your belongings to each of you.”_

_“All?”_

_“That’s it?”_

_“See it done!”_ she thundered, and Sandor felt the oddest compulsion to laugh. How naturally it came to her, the act of commanding grown men to do as they were told. _“See your squires punished, and I will uphold my end of the deal.”_

_“Yes Ser.”_

The three scurried off, likely in search of their respective squire, and Sandor sprinted around the side of the tent back into its shelter. There Lyanna greeted him, finally having removed her helm. She held it now tucked under her arm, the other divested of her mailed fists. “Gods, it’s hard to breathe in there,” she confessed with a rueful grin. Her hair, normally so pristinely placed, was a mess of sweat-soaked curls of black ink. “I suppose this day shall have to suffice for my dreams of adventure…”

“This day shouldn’t have happened at all!” Sandor scowled at her now. “You’re reckless! Consider yourself damned happy to have had this day alone. Gods help us if your brothers find out what you’ve done.”

Lyanna’s face matched his in fury, her brows furrowed deeply in malcontent. “Why, you sound more like my father each day! I’m sure you’ll serve him well.” The words, although one might mistake them on parchment for compliments, could be none other than scornful and disdained, so loathsome was her tone.

Then she sighed, not even a full three seconds later, and all the fight drained from her lungs with a heavy exhale.

“Fear not, Sandor. You’ll be home before you know it, and all of this will be nothing but a night terror. Whereas I…” she smiled her most sad and forlorn smile. “I will only be starting mine.”

His face softened, the scars twisting harshly with the force of his rage now sank down with his fury to their normal size. “Lyanna…” he murmured, unsure of what to do.

Lyanna could only stare at him, her eyes glassy in the low light.

“It’s alright. This life… I’ve always known who I would become, Sandor. I’ve always known who I would not be.”

“I’m sorry,” he says now, because there were no other words he could think to say.

“It is hardly your fault, but thank you for your kindness. And thank you for helping me, despite the trouble it caused your conscience. Please know…” she faltered briefly, pursing her lips through her swell of emotions. “This day…will stay with me for the rest of my life. Whatever grief this day has caused you, I sincerely hope that perhaps… Perhaps my joy will temper it.”

His tongue swelled three times it’s usual size in that moment, and it was all he could do to nod with solemnity.

“You’re welcome, my lady.”

They stood there in silence for several minutes which stretched on for eternity, until Lyanna finally asked what the crowds thought of her, what he had witnessed with the other onlookers. And so he told her about the way the people had gone from wary of her, to supportive of her cause, rallying behind her three easy victories.

“I know in my head it must only be because the three knights are hardly well-liked. Yet in my heart…it still feels rather nice to know the people cheered for me, in the end.”

Sandor grinned a bit at her. “In all honesty…it was enjoyable to watch.” When he didn’t feel like retching on the floor, that is.

She laughed once, a tired sound, and turned playful suddenly. “So Boros Blount is one hideous beastie, isn’t he?”

Sandor was inclined to agree, and not just because Lyanna said so. The knight’s capabilities as a swordsman were deplorable. To be defeated by Lyanna—not because she was a woman, but simply because she lacked all the formal education he had surely had growing up—was utterly outrageous and, in Sandor’s mind, unforgivably shameful.

Too bad he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone this.

“I saw them thrashed soundly this day,” Lyanna muttered with a self-satisfied grin. “Them and their squires. It will have to be enough for now.”

“How do you know they’ll make good on their word?” he asked her. “That they’ll actually see their squires punished?”

“Oh, that’s simple. I shamed them. And then I blamed their squires for my entering the tourney. If anything, they’ll punish their cowardly squires for that.” And she smiled at him, an utterly satisfied expression than made him snort.  

“I should have known you would have a plan behind the madness. How could I underestimate you?”

She sniffed haughtily at him. “Yes, how utterly shameful.” She paused, the facade falling in her hesitation. “In all truth, I think I’ve run myself into a bit of a problem now. I’ve had to dodge Robert’s advances thrice now.”

“What—today??”

She winced, and sat down heavily upon a stool. “Yes. He’s desperate to face me and unhorse me. _As if_ he could.”

“Lyanna!” Sandor gasped. Robert Baratheon’s prowess on a steed, although nowhere near as famed as his skill with a hammer, was well-spoken. Besides, it didn’t take much observing him to know the young lord had a good arm on him.

But Lyanna shook her head. “Don’t be like that. I have no intention of facing him and risking him recognizing me. Brandon and Ned would be more likely to pay attention to me if I did, anyways. They can’t know, Sandor.” She looked to him fearfully. “I have to get away from here now. Before they start demanding answers!”

“Alright.” He squared his shoulders and marched ahead, poking his head outside the tent, where a flurry of movement had started. The people, those helping see to the tourney, seemed oddly panicked, as though searching for someone. In fact, countless people were running about, searching through neighbouring tents, calling out to one another.

“What’s going on?” he called out to one boy his age, rushing away from him. The boy, a buck-toothed runt, barely spared Sandor a glance. “It’s His Grace! He’s demanded the Knight of the Laughing Tree reveal himself, only no one can find him. He’s even got the Prince after him!”

“Prince Rhaegar?” he heard Lyanna whisper enquiringly, but Sandor shushed her frantically.

“Gods be damned!” he hissed. It was precisely what he’d feared coming to pass; the king had taken interest in her, or someone close to him had pressed the matter, and now he had sent half the kingdom after the lady hiding behind his shoulder.

“Put your helm on,” he snapped, and prayed they would be mistaken for one of the many trying to find the Knight. When he went to leave, though, he found Lyanna standing in the shadows on the tent, stunned silent and wide-eyed with fear.

“Lyanna, put the helm on.”

“Lyanna!” She looked at him with wide eyes, drenched in her own sweat, and was startled for a moment before she remembered who he was. “Come on! This way!”

After seeing her don the helm once more, he dragged her by the hand into the smattering of tents, further and further, until his chest felt ready to split in two, until he could spot the woods on the fringe of the clearing. “Go,” he gasped, and urged her on. He dove into the thicket at the clearing, and prayed they both found a way out of this unscathed.

Behind them he could hear voices calling, a man yelling for him to _stop in the name of the king_.

And though Sandor had only heard the man speak once, had only heard him at a welcoming feast the night before, he knew at once who it was that spoke, who it was that raced past Sandor’s hiding place, hot on the heels of Lyanna Stark.

_Rhaegar Targaryen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And for those of you who have reviewed in prior chapters, another big thank you. You are far more encouraging than you can possibly know. 
> 
> I've sadly had little time to read fanfics lately, which is utterly criminal of myself, I feel. (I'm a very busy girl, mind you, what with college in full swing right now). So if I usually review on your fic and I haven't, please don't take it personally! I'm coming! I just gotta take my time now :P (hence the lengthy wait in updates too).
> 
> Also, after reviewing my notes, I'm a bit worried I'm coming across as a negative nancy in the author notes, complaining and harping on the fandom. That's terrible of me! So how about this: if you DO choose to review, if you feel up to it (but are by no means obligated) tell me about a fanfic you're reading that you love. (And I mean OBVIOUSLY other than mine, lol) There's been a lot of negativity in the fandom as a whole, I feel. I'd like to put some positivity back into it. Plus I'm lonely! 
> 
> Drop me a line and let me know what's going on in your beautiful brain!
> 
> All of my love,  
> and a Happy belated Halloween to those who partook in the festivities!
> 
> xoxo  
> Miss Mallora


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes. Life changes for all.

“Sad it’s over?”

Sandor blinked up at the fatigued face of his friend. Brandon’s face, although smiling, seemed aged and worn-out greatly, all from the past two days, as though the week in Harennhal had lasted not days but years. So deep were the lines around his eyes, and the disheveled state of his hair strongly suggested lack of sleep, or a restless one.

“I am,” Sandor said, although he wasn’t sure that was the truth. The tourney had been a rarity for one like himself, and surely not likely to come again—or ever, given its luxuriousness—and yet the entirety of the festival had been so terribly plagued with uproar and chaos, he wasn’t so sure anymore that this was the life he aspired to.

“It will be strange going home,” said Brandon, who’s tone suggested _strangeness_ was the least of his concerns. Sandor could only imagine what was going on in his head; he suspected the heir to Winterfell was none too excited to be getting back within earshot of his doubtlessly infuriated father.

So very much had happened in the past seven days. Sandor could scarcely wrap his head around it all.

A few short days past, he had watched Prince Rhaegar run headlong into the forest after Lyanna, whom he thought to be some poor-mannered green boy waving a shield and spear about like a fool. Heartsick, Sandor had had no choice but to circle back slowly to their camp, knowing if he was found by the prince, they might realize who the Knight of the Laughing Tree was. But if he remained hidden, if his tale he’d planned held up to the critical eye of the Stark brothers, then at least Lyanna had hope. She only needed to run far enough, and the prince (although slim and agile) was no match for a wolf when it came to speed and endurance.

And so Sandor prayed, thinking once again of every sort of god he’d heard of, begging for Lyanna’s fortune to hold out just a little longer.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice who it was in front of him before he’d nearly crashed headlong into Ned’s chest.

“Sandor?” Ned seized him by the shoulders. “What are you doing? Where is Lyanna?”

Sandor swallowed, and tried not to look guilty. Which was, of course, incredibly difficult to do, especially when Brandon and Benjen came up behind him, each frowning perplexedly at him. “In her rooms. She…I think she was upset about…about those squires. She went inside and said I could do as I pleased.”

“And you didn’t wish to watch the jousting?” asked Ned, with a suspicious brow quirked.

“I did.” Sandor sucked in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I could only get as far as the commonfolks’ seating. No one believed I was with a House.” This was completely untrue, but it was something Sandor could easily imagine happening. It would take a great deal to convince anyone who didn’t know the Starks well that Sandor was well-acquainted with the sons of Rickard Stark. Especially given how he looked now, covered in dried mud from laying crouched under the stand, and then later when he had rolled into the underbrush to hide.

“Why were you running?”

Sandor fought a huff now, only barely stopping himself from glaring at Ned. Had it been one of the other Stark boys alone with Sandor, he’d have never been questioned. But Ned had spent the least amount of time with Sandor; it made sense his trust came with more convincing.

Sensible or not, it was incredibly inconvenient.

“I heard about the Knight of the Laughing Tree. The Prince was running after him.”

Ned’s face smoothed into grave understanding. “Yes. The King is furious, as are many. Some claim he is a pretender, no knight at all. Many will speak of this story for years to come.”

“The coward does not deserve such thought,” said Brandon, rolling his eyes. “Any man who is unwilling to present his name to his king is a coward and a traitor. No matter that the knights he defeated were those same three whose squires treated Howland like scum.” Brandon chuckled suddenly, causing Ned to spin and raise his brows in disbelief at his brother’s bizarre moment of humor. “I was just thinking if I didn’t know better, I would say this is something our sister would do.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Ned muttered, walking away. “And don’t say such foolish things where others who do not know better might hear us; where would she have learned how to joust, after all?”

“It was only a thought,” said Brandon, still smiling as he turned after his silent brother. But Sandor’s gaze was fixated upon young Benjen’s reaction, the way his eyes had widened at Brandon’s jape, the way his face had paled with realization and his mouth twisted sourly.

He didn’t say anything to Sandor, but there was no doubt in either lad’s mind as to what had happened that day.

Sandor shuffled on the spot awkwardly for a moment, privately praying Ned was wrong and that the story died quickly, like a candle flame extinguished in the wind. He prayed no one else tried to piece together the details of this day, that none realized the knights who were defeated were those of the same houses of the squires who had attacked Howland Reed. He prayed feverishly that none remembered that Lyanna was strangely absent the day a mysterious champion unhorsed three knights in the name of justice.

Yes. Sandor would be most happy if the whole of Westeros forgot all about the Knight of the Laughing Tree the next day.

Lyanna had finally made an appearance later that evening, her hair done neatly and her face and hands clean of any incriminating evidence. She was peculiarly tired to the rest of her family and friends, and she walked slowly and carefully as though she was fighting the urge to limp, but she put off any questions by feigning recovering from an illness, claiming that she was “feeling flushed only this morning, and now merely wearied—but thank you kindly for your concern.”

Sandor was the only one who hadn’t been fooled, and as soon as he had the chance, he cornered her shamelessly.

“What happened? How did you escape?” Sandor pressed his friend for details, but Lyanna had been unusually coy and vague.

“Nothing of import. Honestly, Sandor, don’t be so panicked! We have both made it unscathed!” She tried smiling at him, but the lie on her face was plain to read. Sandor had frowned at her, torn between allowing the day to pass into memories or push her for more answers. For the time being, he let her go, too upset to bother feigning happiness for her. Instead they had watched the rest of the tourney play out, with a blessedly few number of unusual occurrences.

Until there came the final day of the joust.

Sandor could still see the moment Rhaegar won whenever he closed his eyes. His victory had happened yesterday, but it felt as though Sandor had never left the stands, as though he were watching right this second as Rhaegar unhorsed his final competitor and took the title of victor. Thunderous applause broke out over the crowds then, even Sandor had grinned a bit and clapped in enthusiastic joy. The moment was euphoric, and contagious moreover. Even though a northern man did not take the victory, it felt for those few short moments like the happy ending they all deserved.

And it was then Rhaegar was handed the crown of blue roses, the peculiarly northern bouquet, and it was then he had climbed astride his steed once more, to the tune of hundreds of men and women cheering in his name and in his princess’ name, the sweet Elia of House Martell, who sat not too far from where Sandor was seated with Lyanna and Brandon.

The people cheered, and Rhaegar rode to his lady with his long white hair flowing behind him. He sat his horse so elegantly, with a proud lean to his shoulders and the barest of smiles gracing his face. When at last Rhaegar reached his wife’s seat, Sandor thought he meant to do a turn about the whole ring once more for the sake of the crowd. A rather foppish thing to do, he thought sourly, only Rhaegar did _not_ take a tour of the ring, and though he passed his wife’s seat, he did stop shortly after…

Directly in front of Lyanna herself.

Sandor felt as though the air had been pushed from his lungs. Rhaegar acted as though he hadn’t noticed the way the people fell silent, shocked and awed by the sight. A young prince with his beautiful bride not twenty feet away, forsaken for the fifteen-year-old northern wolf with eyes as wide as the moon. For Lyanna herself was undoubtedly shocked, although she managed to accept the crown with a quiet _thank you,_ letting the roses sit in her lap with a numb look of bewilderment on her face.

Eyes wide, slack-jawed with disbelief, Sandor had all but felt the fury build in Brandon’s shoulders, though he was seated on the other side of Lyanna. And though his fury was impressive back in the tent, Robert Baratheon had been near inconsolable in his rage at the perceived slight.

“He _dares_ insult me like this!” Robert thundered, stomping from one end of the tent to the next. “Acting as though the lady would be _flattered_ by his attentions while his wife sits beside us, twiddling her thumbs?! The bloody fool!”

“Mayhap he just meant to pay Lyanna a compliment, Lord Baratheon,” Benjen suggested quietly, although the general consensus from the brothers of Lyanna was that the act was quite definitely an insult—

—paid to _Lyanna,_ not Robert.

“Should we say something?” Ned had asked Brandon quietly. “Speak out against it?”

“No,” he muttered, frowning over at Lyanna, who had not said much of anything that night. The flower crown hung limply in her hands as she stared down on it, transfixed. “No. It will only make her look guiltier.”

And Brandon was right. Many lords and ladies who had been happy to speak with House Stark during the tourney would now ignore them or look the other way. The transformation of the attitude towards Lyanna was almost shocking; how could so many hold something against for which she’d had no say?

It was the night ending the tourney, only last night, that Sandor had finally spoken with Lyanna and gotten to the truth. She had tried to deflect his conversation once more, but he’d persisted until at long last, she spoke true.

“Prince Rhaegar found me the other day in the forest, when he chased after the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

Her confession stunned him, but not nearly as much as her next words did. “When he caught up to me, he was so kind, after he realized who I was and what I had done. He called it courageous, and he swore to me that none would ever know the truth of what had happened. Of what I’d done.”

“And then?” Sandor asked, and Lyanna blushed some here.

“And…and he told me things. Like…how wild I was. And…” she swallowed nervously. “And he told me I was _beautiful_.” Sandor tried to absorb what she was telling him, but it was hard to fathom. Of course, Lyanna truly _was_ quite beautiful, and men were prone to paying her compliments periodically. This was no novelty for her, nor for him to hear. What shocked him however, was the fact that he could say something to her, the pair of them alone, unchaperoned and Lyanna unwed, whilst his wife had only _just_ given him a son.

The lack of respect for Elia, putting it mildly, was astounding.

Lyanna’s reaction even more so.

“You almost seemed pleased,” Sandor accused, narrowing his gaze on her. “He—he takes you aside, _unchaperoned_ , tells you how beautiful you are. A _married_ man!” Sandor scowled. “And now this? He is too bold, Lyanna!”

Lyanna had reacted with anger at her friend’s scolding, although in hindsight Sandor could imagine how it slighted to be chided by a ten-year-old boy. That didn’t make the truth of the matter any different though; Rhaegar had displayed nothing but arrogance and self-serving vanity in his gesture that day. His pride made Sandor feel nauseous.

“I just wish to go home,” he muttered to himself. This trip had not been the great adventure he had wanted, and between Lyanna and Brandon, he had learned far more about his close friends than he had intended. Sandor still thought back on the first night they came to Harrenhal, the night of the opening feast and the dancing, and the way Brandon had vanished so early in the night. Bored with the music, Sandor had left shortly after with the hopes of finding his comrade, but no such luck. He had wandered outside where there was a long garden and several rows of pillars and colonnades to walk about, to run through, to hide behind. Couples were found everywhere, hiding in the darkest shadows, stealing kisses and secrets like they could scarcely contain themselves.

Sandor had wrinkled his nose and made to leave, when he heard the most peculiar of noises coming from a secluded little archway at the end of outside doors. There was a strange sound, almost like a cry, with a breathless sigh hitched at the end like a horse and wagon.

_“Oh, Brandon.”_

Sandor’s brow furrowed deeply. The voice was most definitely female, though he couldn’t say whose, and he knew enough of the workings between a man and woman to have a gist of what was happening under the archway. But Catelyn Tully was days away, in Riverrun.

Who could Brandon be with otherwise?

“Sandor.”

He jerked, and spun about to come face to face with none other than Eddard Stark. The young man had a frown as deep as the heaviest snowfalls in winter on his face. He motioned patiently to the boy, a quiet beckoning of his hand. “Come, Sandor. Let’s to bed.”

“But…” He glanced back to the pillars which lead out to the open air and night sky. “But what about—”

“Never mind him.” Ned laid a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder, steering him in the direction of their adjoining rooms. “Let us get to bed.”

“But what was he doing with that woman?”

“Sandor.”

“He is to wed Catelyn Tully! Why was he with some other girl?”

There was an increasing note of irritation in Ned’s voice, but Sandor couldn’t help himself. “Sandor, this is _not_ to be spoken of.”

“But he made a vow! How could he make a vow to Catelyn, only to then…then…with someone _else_?”

“I do not know, Sandor!” Ned was well and truly angry, hissing crackling words at him, but Sandor got the feeling it was from Ned’s own lack of answers rather than true anger with Sandor himself. “I don’t know how he could do this to her! Catelyn Tully is a beautiful woman, and my foolish brother doesn’t deserve the ground she walks on, yet here we are! They are to be wed, and lovely Ashara Dayne will be ruined—”

 _“Ashara Dayne!?”_ Sandor stared at him, gape-jawed. “That was who he was with? Ser Arthur’s sister?” He paled dramatically. “If Ser Arthur finds out, he’ll kill Brandon!”

“Hush!” Ned dragged him inside, where a few servants were walking about, carrying empty plates and casks of wine. The anger slowly seeped out of the older boy, as though blood leaking from a wound. His shoulders sagged, and his hand pressed Sandor in the direction of their tents. _“To bed,_ Sandor.” He ruffled Sandor’s long hair for good measure, and where there had been frustration in his voice, there was now tired fondness and exasperation. “You ask many questions, Sandor.”

But he wouldn’t ask so many if he only received some answers once in a while.

Sandor hadn’t spoken of the instance to Brandon once, and he had the feeling Ned had not done so either. Between his lingering frustration over Brandon’s dishonorable acts and Lyanna’s unfathomably bold and daring actions, Sandor had spoken very little to either of them, and kept to himself instead. Conversation mattered little to the people he travelled with; the northerners were simply glad to be out of the south again, and made no qualms in breathing a collective sigh of relief once they passed the neck and made for their homes once more. The Houses of the North eventually separated into their own groups, while Sandor and the Starks made for Winterfell. Lord Baratheon, to the relief of many, had decided to return home to the Stormlands for a time, although his parting words to Ned and Lyanna strongly hinted at another visit soon. Ned had embraced the man like a brother, and even Lyanna had smiled for him as he kissed her hand.

Surprised as Sandor was by Lyanna’s gesture of kindness to Lord Baratheon, he hadn’t had much time to dwell on it. Soon enough, they were all in Winterfell once more, and Lord Stark was ready to greet them at the gates when they arrived. His face, already naturally solemn and somewhat dour, held a fierce quality of quiet displeasure and, behind that, rage. It wasn’t for the average eye to see, but Sandor knew what to look for. The way Lord Stark’s hands did spasm in their hold on Brandon’s shoulders, they way his eyes had twitched minutely at Lyanna’s demure curtsey and greeting of “Father.”

Sandor overheard his liege address Brandon, Eddard and Lyanna in the most severe of tones. “You three will accompany me to my solar at once.”

“Father, we just travelled for miles—”

But Rickard was not a man to be argued with that day. _“At once,_ Brandon!” And with that, he had spun around and stormed off with all the wild elegance of a man born to one of the most powerful bloodlines in all of Westeros.

Sandor never did find out what words were exchanged that day, nor did they ever discuss the events of Harrenhal again, but whatever it was had been enough to convince Lyanna to seek Sandor out that evening and apologize for what she now understood to be reckless behaviour. “Even if it was quite satisfying,” she added with an self-indulgent smile.

Sandor had chuckled quietly then, and all was forgiven. After all, she was so far in the north, and Rhaegar was so far south. He had nothing to worry about.

* * *

 

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on them, truly he hadn’t. Sandor had only meant to ask if Lyanna was accompanying him and Brandon out on a ride tomorrow morning when he heard voices coming through the door to Ned’s room. Open ever so slightly, Sandor had approached the door with every intention of knocking—he heard Lyanna, heard them talking with one another, it made sense at the time—but when he actually got close enough to distinguish words, Sandor stayed back.

_“—please, brother. You know you’re the only one who might convince Father…”_

_“I can’t, Lya. And I won’t. Robert Baratheon is a good man.”_

_“What of his bastard girl? What of the countless whores he has had? You think I haven’t any ears, brother?”_

Ned sighed. “ _He’s a strong warrior and a loyal soldier.”_

The conversation paused, and Sandor prepared to dash off in case they were about to leave and discover him listening to their words. But then Lyanna spoke, a cold voice filled with disdain and heart-breaking disappointment. _“None of those things make a good husband. I thought…I thought you would be on my side.”_

Sandor crept away then, unwilling to know how the conversation proceeded. It was no secret that Ned had little control over his father’s wishes, and it was equally plain that Rickard Stark had no intention of passing up the chance to tie the north to the south. Lyanna did not like it, but she did not have to; in the end, their people would be stronger for her marriage, and that was all Rickard would see.

Sandor felt very sorry for her.

It was impossible to _not_ feel sad for her; she was downright despondent at the morning meal the next day, and every passing day she grew worse. Her attitude was described as listless at best, a sad presence sweeping through the castle halls, staring around her with an aching yearning, the sort of way one looked at something they would never see again. _She is memorizing her home,_ he realised sadly, and vowed to spend the next day with her to cheer her.

Lyanna was happiest when they were alone. Brandon was deep in the throes of becoming the Lord of Winterfell, constantly surrounded by his father’s politics, and Ned left for the Eyrie once again not six months past returning home. Even Benjen was distracted, trying now to find his own path. When it was only Sandor and Lyanna, when they raced their mounts down the trails and hillsides of the forest, that was the only time he saw her laugh. Her black hair streamed out behind her, her chin tipped back in her joy, and sometimes she even dared to drop the reigns, boldly throwing her arms out to either side of her and shouting wildly at the top of her lungs. Sandor yelled with her, laughing and and shaking his head and terrified she would fall, the two of them brave and stupid and so very young.

She was sixteen now. Sixteen years of age, and ready to be wed. Her father was going to set a date at any moment now, and everyone knew it. Robert wrote her frequently, but Lyanna never shared the content of the letters, nor what she sent in reply. But she never gave any indication that such letters were troublesome to her, nor that her replies were anything short of warm and kind. Sandor wasn’t sure if she felt pity for the lord and did not wish to be unkind, of if she knew her father read her letters prior to sending them, as Sandor himself suspected.

Men and women all over the north remarked on her beauty. They constantly compared her to other women, to the beauty of famed southron ladies. Cersei Lannister. Ashara Dayne. (They did not mention Elia Targaryen, as no one in the keep mentioned Elia or the Targaryens after the Tourney, lest they could help it). “And none hold a candle to you, milady,” they would say, and curtsey deeply at her feet. Lyanna’s face would take on a pinched quality at these times, one of smothered exasperation, and though she smiled and thanked them, she would oftentimes try to catch Sandor’s eye afterwards so that she might roll her eyes at him, the pair of them sharing this little secret.

“Beauty is such a hassle,” she had remarked spontaneously one day, when they were an hour’s ride from Winterfell. Now she was engaged to be wed, her father had allowed her more freedoms than he’d done before. Why Rickard had decided this, Sandor didn’t understand, but he wouldn’t question the man about it.

“Poor you,” said Sandor, feeling a bit sour with her. He didn’t care much for _beauty,_ but it would be nice to be stared at for something other than his scars.

Lyanna only sighed. “Forgive me. I know it sounds foolish, but it’s true. Would that I were plain, just enough so that no man wanted me…”

“Men will always want you,” he muttered, sprawled out on his back, unable to see her face. “You’re the daughter of Lord Rickard Stark, Warden of the North. You could have the face of a horse’s arse and still be sought after.”

She didn’t say anything, and when Sandor turned his head to glimpse her reaction, he saw she had turned away from him, her shoulders hitched high under her ears, trembling softly. “Lyanna?”

But his nervous voice had broken her from her trance. “We should return now,” said Lyanna, striding briskly to their steeds, and hauling herself onto the saddle without another word. “They will be looking for me.”

Lyanna and Sandor didn’t go riding for a long while after that. Lyanna continued to receive letters, a number of letters, short missives from ravens who went straight for Lyanna’s hands. She never opened them in front of others, and kept herself barred in her room a long time after reading them, although the words themselves could hardly be numerous.

One morning meal, the morning after she received one such missive, Sandor found her to be unusually quiet amongst her family. He took a seat on Benjen’s right, as was proper, but he continuously strained his neck to try and catch a glimpse of her. Subdued, head bowed, Lyanna broke her fast without speaking much of a word to anyone. None paid attention to her silence, used to her perceived moodiness, but Sandor noticed. Sandor saw. And when she left after eating not even half of what was on her plate, he hurried to finish his own meal and find her, but to no avail.

Lyanna had seemingly disappeared that day. Benjen hadn’t seen her, and her handmaids were unaware of what their lady was up to this day. Sandor had tried to hide his panic—he didn’t want his own fears to get her into trouble—but in his heart, fear and doubt gripped him for hours all day. He trained in the yard with the other boys, many of whom he was growing to like, but he couldn’t focus on his sparring for long. Rodrik dismissed them late in the evening, and Sandor resumed his searching after finding her missing from the supper meal.

“She’s fine,” Brandon assured him when he asked after her. “Likely just sulking in her room.” Her father had finally set a wedding date for two months from then. She would be leaving Winterfell for an indeterminable period of time within the next six weeks, and he didn’t doubt grief ate at her like an open wound. But his worry didn’t abate, and Sandor knew he would get no sleep this night.

So he took to the stables whereupon he found his horse—the one Lord Stark had loaned him to train on—and groomed its mane, scraped its hooves for dirt and stones, and even offered up an apple he’d been saving for himself. The hour was late by the time he finished and decided it was time he best get to sleep, but no sooner had he entered the castle than he heard soft scuttling footsteps behind him, dancing after him.

He spun around, heart ramming furious in his chest from fear of the unknown, until he saw a grey-eyed girl twirling after him, her arms high over her head in an arching circle, her smile wider than he’d seen it in years. _Lady with the sad eyes,_ people called her, but there was no indication of such a girl now. She was happy.

She was radiant.

“Where have you been?” Sandor snapped, relief quickly melting into anger at seeing Lyanna safe. As she approached, he saw under her warm cloak she was still dressed in her nightgown, something which shocked him. “What are you wearing?!”

“That’s hardly important now. I’m to bed.” Lyanna walked up to him with a bounce to her step, and set a hand on either of his shoulders. They were at the same height now—he was only slightly taller—and her eyes crinkled with her smile. “Sandor, my dear friend… You’ve been a brother to me for years. You know how much I love you, don’t you?”

Sandor blinked, startled at the abrupt change of conversation. “Y-yes? I thank you, milady.”

“None of that,” she scolded, but her words were still teasing. Her steel eyes softened then, taking on the unusual hue of a stormy day. “I do love you though. I am so happy you came to us…” Her smile became tremulous. “I’ll miss you dearly.”

“You still have months before you have to leave,” Sandor pointed out, trying to affect a factual tone, but cold terror gripped his heart at her words. “There’s no need to talk so dramatically. You should get to bed…before your maids really realize where you’ve gone. You’ve not been drinking, have you?”

“No!” she laughed. “No, I’ve not. But you’re right, of course. We should both get some sleep.” Her face changed then, took on a queer expression of somberness and pain. “Do you know what I learned today, little brother?” She hooked her arm through his elbow, giving him little choice in the matter but to being walking her in the direction of their respective quarters.

“What did you learn?”

“Sometimes…we cannot see the plan the gods have for us. Sometimes, mayhap they do not _want_ us to see the plan they have in mind for us. But there is always a plan.” She squeezed his arm gently, and smiled in the pale light of the moon streaming through the window of the keep. Her chamber forked to the left down the hall they had entered, and his to the right.

“Sometimes we must suffer before we see their plan,” she added solemnly, and touched his scarred cheek with a look of utter agony and sympathy. He stared at her unseeingly for a moment, and shook his head from his reverie.

“You mean my scars were for a purpose?” he asked sourly, and pulled her hand from his cheek. Cold air replaced the warmth of her palm, but she wasn’t angry with him.

“You’re here, aren’t you? Did your grandfather not save you out of fear from your brother?” she frowned at him. “Nothing pains me greater than the thought of you suffering so terribly, so young, but… I am selfish, Sandor, for it meant that I met you. And I cannot bring myself to regret that.”

He replied grudgingly. “Nor I.” He still wished it hadn’t been at the expense of his face.

But Lyanna smiled at his understanding. “You see?” she took a step back from him, slowly sliding into the darkness of the unlit hall. “Everything works out in the end.”

She vanished into the night, and slowly he turned and descended into his own quiet darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATED as of February 3, 2016. 
> 
> MissMallora has officially left the world of fanfiction (for good, this time). I'm so sorry to leave this fic on a cliffhanger, but honestly, at least it ends before Lyanna dies (spoiler alert). And I promise not to take down any of my work.
> 
> I've completely lost my taste for writing. I don't know if it's this fandom or if it's me or whatever, but I can't do it anymore. I find myself hurt and angry on this site far more often than not.
> 
> In truth, I think I'm simply too jaded. This website makes me tired and angry and very, very bitter, and none of these things help my depression any. 
> 
> Best of luck to all. 
> 
> Take care, and be safe.
> 
> Love,  
> MissMallora
> 
> PS, I'm still game to beta work, or for anyone looking for encouragement. I know all too well how it feels to scream into a void and feel like no one is listening. Though my time as a writer here is done, my inbox is still open for anyone who feels the need for praise and love.


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